


Lost in Revision

by Acacia Carter (xaandria)



Series: Revisionism [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Drama, F/M, KIND of canon, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Acacia%20Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stand-alone companion piece to Revisionism. A lot of things can happen between the defeat of Lord Voldemort and Happily Ever After, particularly when one has a history of bad judgment calls. Harry is twenty-four, his relationship is falling to pieces, and he's getting nowhere on his current assignment at work. It's probably best not to ask how things can get any worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry needlessly straightened his Ministry robes on the hanger in the wardrobe, brushing the tiniest fleck of dust from the sleeve, picking a ginger cat hair from the chest. The stitching at the hem was starting to fray just slightly, he noticed, he'd have to have the tailor take a look at that. And the lining was definitely starting to get threadbare where it rubbed up against his wand holster. He ran his fingers over his embroidered monogram on the cuff and sighed. No matter how hard he focused on the minutiae, reality always managed to worm its way to the fore of his brain.

Hermione had been shocked to open the door to find him on the doorstep, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, eyes bloodshot and swollen, but had recovered herself masterfully and immediately invited him in, plunking him down in an armchair in the living room and Banishing his overnight bag to a room somewhere upstairs.

"Tea?" she'd offered. He'd nodded, numbly, staring without focus at the low table in front of him. A kettle whistled somewhere behind him, there was the sound of water being poured, and then a tray with a teapot and two cups was set on the table. Hermione sat down in the chair next to him.

"Harry, you look a mess. What happened?"

Harry opened his mouth, but had trouble getting any words past the lump in his throat and the ache in his chest. He gestured helplessly, then took a deep breath. "Neville and I are...are done." Speaking the words made his throat burn with tears he refused to shed and he clamped his jaw shut.

Hermione made an inarticulate little sound of sad astonishment and grasped his hand. "Oh, Harry," she said, her voice catching. "I...I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry." She licked her lips. "How did it...happen?"

Harry shook his head violently. "I don't know! I don't know where everything started to go wrong, but it just...did and now..." He propped one elbow on the arm of the chair and covered his face with his hand. "We've been having problems for months," he said quietly. "We've had problems before, but we always got over them. This time, though..." he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "I haven't slept," he said after a long pause. "We were up all night, talking. I got home late—this damn necromancer case, I'm sure Ron's told you about it—and he was up waiting for me, like he used to do, only this time it was to tell me that...that we're...over." He could feel his hands start to shake, the tip of his nose start to burn with the tears he desperately tried to keep out of his eyes. It was no use; they crept into his eyes anyway, burning at the corners before running down his cheeks. "I begged him not to leave," he choked. "There was a whole hour where I thought I had him convinced to give us one last try. But..." Hermione was squeezing his hand in both of hers now, tears standing in her eyes as well. "And the worst part is, he was right," Harry continued in a ragged voice. "We'd let ourselves get so distant we didn't know how to patch it up. We couldn't figure out how to be together anymore." The last word turned into a sob and Hermione knelt on the floor in front of him, holding him to her, resting his head on her shoulder. "I don't know what to do, Hermione," he said, almost incoherently. "We were together for more than six years...I d-don't know what to do wi-without him..."

"I know," Hermione said, patting him uselessly on the back, "I know."

Presently Harry's shoulders stopped shaking and he took a deep, shaking breath, willing himself to calm down.

"Where is he now?" Hermione asked carefully.

"Back at the house," Harry responded, trying to distance himself from his words. "He's taking the weekend to move out. I figured it'd be less...painful...if I let him do it alone."

Hermione nodded. "You can stay here, of course," she said gently. "As long as you need to. We've got the two guest bedrooms, but you'll have to share the bathroom with Ginny—she's living with us for the time being."

"Ginny?" Harry wiped the corner of his eye with a knuckle. "What's she doing here?"

"She had a terrible breakup too, about a month ago. All of us saw it coming but her, poor thing...he treated her horribly. She's better off for it, and I think she knows it, but she's still heartbroken." Hermione rose to go back to her own chair. "She should be home later today, she's looking at flats for let. Ron'll be back soon too, I imagine—he was on call this weekend for that poisoner case, and at three in the morning he was called in for a raid on a warehouse that had been falsifying their shipments of Noxcap..." she trailed off as she saw that Harry was not listening. She reached over and rubbed his upper arm. "Come on. Let me show you to your room. Sleep is what you need most right now...take a shower, and I'll have a Dreamless Sleep flask by your bed when you're done." Harry nodded numbly and followed her up the stairs.

And here he was now, several hours later. It was dark outside and throughout the rest of the house; the streetlight through the window and the lamp on the desk bathed the room in a soft yellow glow. He did feel better after his time asleep, but he didn't think Hermione had figured out that once he had woken up, everything would come crashing down around his head again, and no one else would be awake. Of course, he'd only taken half the potion—maybe she'd expected him to sleep until the next morning. He pondered quaffing the rest of the potion and thought better of it for now. Instead, he wandered into the bathroom that connected the two guest bedrooms with vague ideas of washing his face and getting a drink of water.

He had finished the one and was in the middle of the latter when the door leading to the other bedroom cracked open slightly. "Is someone in there?" a female voice asked.

"Just me," Harry said after hastily swallowing. "Sorry, did I wake you?" He had no idea what time it was.

"No, I was just up reading," Ginny said, pushing the door open the rest of the way. She was lit only from behind by a lamp on the bedside table in the bedroom, and Harry caught himself staring.

He'd not seen her in well over two years, not since he'd been promoted and his social calendar had become distressingly constricted. She'd cut her hair in that time; what had once gone past her elbows now only just brushed her shoulder blades, and long fringe was tucked behind her ear on one side. She'd filled out from the coltish teenage beauty she'd been and though it was difficult to tell beneath the baggy pajama pants and tank top she wore, she looked as though she had developed some very flattering curves. The girl he'd known from school, and possibly even fancied a bit before his affections had been captured by Neville, was now a remarkably pretty young woman, and she was standing right in front of him.

She cocked her head to one side. "What?"

"Nothing," Harry said quickly, glancing down at his water glass. "I just almost didn't recognize you. It's been a long time."

"Yeah," Ginny said, looking down at the book she was holding, a finger between the pages to hold her place. "I guess that's just how things happen." She looked up. "Hermione told me what happened. I'm sorry."

"Ah." Harry swallowed and focused very hard on putting the glass down on the counter. "I'm sure I'll live," he finally said, though he wasn't sure about that at all. The burning pressure inside his chest seemed to have reignited. "I heard about what happened with you as well," he said to try and distract himself. "I'm sorry to hear it."

Ginny shrugged. "It's a good thing it happened, really," she said. "He did treat me badly. Doesn't mean I don't feel like rubbish about it." She came a little further into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub facing Harry, book hanging from her hand between her knees. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. Their feet were almost touching, as the space between the counter and the bathtub was not very wide. "He's one of the reasons I never came to visit, you know," Ginny said suddenly. "He didn't want me having blokes as friends, no matter that I assured him all the blokes I knew were either my brother or gay."

"Oh—I'm not," Harry corrected. Ginny raised an eyebrow. "I fancy girls as well," Harry said, his face starting to redden slightly, "I just—well, with Neville, I never had the opportunity—nor the inclination—"

"Don't go falling all over yourself," Ginny said with a small laugh. "I get the picture. You're not picky."

"If you want to be vulgar about it, I suppose," Harry said, a very small smile threatening to bubble up through the despair he was only barely holding at bay. "It's not really a black and white thing, it's...complicated."

"Complicated," Ginny repeated, smiling.

"All right, so it's very simple," Harry said, and this time the smile managed to slip through. His ears were burning, as well. "Can we please talk about something else? What's that you're reading?"

"I don't think I've ever managed to make you blush," Ginny said, not bothering to mask her delight. "You were always so stoic and brooding at school. We always wondered whether you were capable of it."

"I blushed plenty," Harry muttered, his cheeks burning now that they were aware they were on center stage. "Just mostly around Neville." Saying the name gave him a small pang.

"Oh," Ginny said, her face falling slightly. "I didn't mean...sorry." She glanced down at the book in her hands and held it up so he could see the cover. "It's just a trashy romance novel. It's trite, but somehow it makes me feel better reading about people being dramatic and ridiculous and getting together in the end anyway."

Harry nodded, unsure of what to say. Tired of standing, he slid down to the floor and sat on his heels, back against the cabinets under the counter. "How do you make it go away?" he asked finally.

Ginny seemed to understand what he was asking. "I don't think there's any surefire way," she said softly, her eyes unfocusing slightly as she thought about it, staring into middle space. "Me, I spent a lot of time cursing him out to my mates and joking with Ron about how he could go hex him into oblivion, but...I don't think you're actually angry with Neville..."

Harry shook his head. "We're still mad for each other," he said forlornly. "But a relationship needs more than that, and...we just didn't have it..."

"I got a new job," Ginny said hurriedly, as though desperate the change the subject. "It's a private company, helps ghosts to relocate once the places they used to haunt have been demolished or the person they're haunting dies or something..."

"Ghosts?" Harry perked up slightly. "You know I've been working on a necromancer case lately, right? Had Ron told you?" Ginny nodded. "If any of your...clients...mentions anything, will you let me know? We're having serious trouble tracking him down, and it's going to look terrible on my CV if the first case I command ends up going cold."

Ginny nodded. "I hear anything odd, I'll send you an owl."

The conversation dwindled. Ginny fiddled with the corner of her book, flipping the pages listlessly. Harry was about to get up from the floor and bid her good night when she looked up suddenly.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" she asked. Harry blinked, slightly taken aback.

"Sure," he said.

"Have you ever had sex with a girl?" The blunt question was accompanied by equally blunt eye contact, and Harry swallowed. Warning bells began going off in his head.

"Ah, no. Can't say that I have."

"Do you want to?" Her eyes were boring into his own and Harry was fairly sure she could see his mind racing. The bells had been upgraded to sirens, and a proximity alarm began to blare telling him exactly how far away he was from Ginny, in centimeters. The part of his brain that had been quietly noticing her since his first glimpse began narrating its discoveries very loudly, and he felt his palms begin to grow slightly clammy.

He did the only sensible thing—he stood up, and then realized that his body had given the go-ahead to engage arousal without his permission, and so standing up in his loosely-fitted pajama pants was actually not the best idea in the world if his aim was to indicate that he was not interested in her proposition. He swallowed and stared very intently at the air above Ginny's left shoulder.

"I should be getting to bed," he said, or tried to say, because Ginny interrupted him by standing up and placing one finger on his lips. Startled, he stopped speaking as she trailed her fingers across his unshaven cheek and down the side of his neck. It made him shiver. He could smell her, that flowery smell he'd never quite been able to place, and despite the sirens blaring in his head he could feel the warmth coming off her in waves, feel it feeding the flames in his blood, and he couldn't remember the last time he had wanted something so badly.

Ginny tipped her chin up and closed her eyes as he closed his own and leaned down slightly, his arms moving to encircle her of their own accord.

Her lips were soft and sweet and every bit as delicious as he'd imagined, and kissing her stoked the furnace burning within him beyond the point of refusal. She leaned into him, pressing her hips against his own and it was at that point that the decision was made. He broke away and leaned his forehead against hers.

"Oh, this is _such_ a terrible idea," he moaned.

"Horrible," she agreed, and grasped the back of his neck to bring his head down again. "Have you got any better ones?"

" _Yes, and they all involve us going through different doors and going to sleep,"_ Harry intended to say in a firm voice, but somehow it all got lost on the way to his mouth, and instead he found himself stumbling backwards with an armful of gently squirming young woman, through the door to her bedroom, his mouth pressed very hard against hers and her hands at the drawstring to his pajama bottoms and that was around the time that the thinking and reasoning centers of his brain gave it up as a bad job and shut down for the remainder of the night.

* * *

Someone was hissing his name.

Harry snuggled down deeper into the pillow. He did not want to get up. He was at that perfect state of warmth and comfort that comes so rarely when sleeping in a strange bed, he didn't want to ruin it.

" _Harry James Potter, you get up this instant!"_ Something yanked every hair on his head, hard, and the possibility of sleep fled. He lazily opened one eye, and what he saw made him open both very hurriedly and sit bolt upright.

Hermione stood in the bathroom door, pointing her wand at him, her face darker than a thundercloud.

He looked around frantically, noticed his pants on the floor beside the bed, and on his other side Ginny dozing contentedly.

"Oh," Harry said as his mind finished waking up and it dawned on him what exactly he was doing there. Then, " _Oh,_ " as his gaze snapped back to Hermione, who had gone so far past burning fury that she was cold as ice. "I..." he looked pointedly at the pajama bottoms on the floor, and an instant later he realized that perhaps he shouldn't have called attention to that as Hermione's eyes narrowed just slightly, her lips tightened just a titch, and he suddenly knew that he was not long for this world if she got one whit angrier. He awkwardly donned the pants under the covers and then, meekly as he could manage, tiptoed quietly to where Hermione stood fuming.

She reached up, grasped and twisted his ear, and bodily dragged him into the other guest room, closing both bathroom doors behind her with an angry wand jab as she went.

"Ow!" Harry protested, trying to jerk away, but her grip was far too firm. "Ow, ow, ow!" Hermione let go with a flourish that felt as though she'd ripped the ear clean away from his scalp, and he stood up, scowling. "My _ear_ , Hermione? Seriously?"

" _Silencio!_ " Hermione said, brandishing her wand. Harry's eyes bulged. "Harry Potter, you are the most vile, irresponsible human being I've ever laid eyes on," she said in a very dangerous voice that shook with rage. "Not twenty four hours out of a committed relationship with a man _that you are still in love with_ and you go tumble a girl who is _extremely_ vulnerable who is also your best friend's _sister_ and your other best friend's _sister-in-law_ , under _their roof_ , when they've promised to shelter both of you during a time when you both are _hurting_ —" she seemed to have run out of words for his transgressions and so she clamped her jaw shut, crossing her arms and glaring with something that seemed to be very close to hatred.

Harry gestured at his throat to indicate that he couldn't exactly respond. Hermione's eyes narrowed, but she did raise her wand and mutter " _finite incantatum_ ," albeit with such heat that it had a tangible recoil that made Harry's throat ache.

"First of all, it was a very bad decision and I'm as disgusted with myself as you are and I'm surprised you didn't slit my throat as soon as you saw me, because I deserved it," Harry said quickly. If this mollified Hermione at all, she didn't show it. "Secondly, she's the one who came onto me—hard—"

"And I'm sure you were _helpless_ to resist," Hermione snarled.

Harry wanted very badly to reply that yes, he had been quite helpless to resist, but knew it would be the second stupidest thing he'd ever done, the first having been committed only a few hours before. Instead, he continued, "Thirdly, yes, it was a bad decision that I'm starting to really hate myself for, but it was _our_ decision, and now we'll face the consequences—"

"Of which there will be plenty," Hermione practically spat as she brandished a folded bit of parchment at him. "I came in here this morning to tell you that this was delivered sometime last night, when everyone was asleep—or was _supposed_ to be asleep." She thrust it into Harry's face and Harry grabbed it, recognizing the handwriting on the front immediately.

 _Harry—I've never been so stupid before in my life. Please come home. I love you. Neville_

Harry's heart simultaneously leapt and sunk and he stumbled backward to lean against a wall, head spinning.

"Oh, shit."


	2. Chapter 2

Harry wasn't entirely certain that the walls weren't closing in on him. He stared at the parchment in his hand, his heart hammering in his ears.

"If that letter says what I think it says, then 'oh shit' is about right," Hermione said heatedly.

"Please," Harry said, ignoring Hermione's anger and facing her pleadingly, "Please don't tell Neville."

Hermione's jaw dropped slightly in shock, then her brows knit together. "If you're seriously going to try and keep this from him you're even more worthless than I thought—"

"No," Harry interrupted quickly, running his hand through his hair restlessly. "No, it's that—I don't want him to hear it from someone else. He deserves to hear it from me."

"Then you'd best get going," Hermione said firmly.

"Now?" Harry sputtered.

"Fine, make yourself decent first. Then go." Hermione turned on her heel and strode briskly from the room.

"Wait!" Harry said, reaching out as though to grab her. Hermione made an impatient noise and turned. "Please don't tell Ron either."

"He's my husband," Hermione said haughtily, "And he has the right to know what's gone on—"

"His sister's sex life is none of his business, nor is mine," Harry said firmly. "The only other person who has an absolute right to know is Neville."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Fine. I'm not going to argue with you when you actually speak sense. Get clothes on. Go to Neville. And you'd better be as humble as pie and positively dripping with remorse or I will personally draw and quarter you." She turned and flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her as she went.

Harry grabbed his wand from his bedside table, jabbed it briskly at the belongings Hermione had unpacked for him, and shoved whatever didn't fit nicely into his overnight bag until he could work the zipper closed. Then he swore and unpacked it again to fish out a shirt, trousers, and underpants, pulled them on hastily, and shoved everything back in. Wrinkles were a problem he could deal with later.

Hermione was very pointedly ignoring him as he came downstairs. He grimaced, then touched her on the shoulder.

"Yes?" she asked coldly, putting down the book she was reading as though she was tremendously put upon.

"Please tell Ginny that I'm not just running out on her. I don't..." he ran out of words and looked at Hermione helplessly.

She sighed and nodded. "I suppose you're not a totally irresponsible and vile human being," she relented. "I'll tell her. I'll even make it sound like you said it, instead of just looking at me with puppy dog eyes." She shook her head and even through her anger, Harry thought he could detect a very small smile. "Even now I'm doing your damn homework for you."

"Thank you," Harry said simply. Hermione waved it away and picked up her book.

"Go home, Harry. You have some serious explaining to do, and I can't help you with that."

* * *

Harry paused with his hand just above the knob of the door to Twelve Grimmauld Place. On the other side of the door was the man he loved so much it hurt, and he was coming home to tell him...

What in the seven bloody hells was he going to say?

Some rational part of his brain told him that if he stood there agonizing over it, things would only get worse. Before he could freeze up, he opened the door. After that, there was nothing to do but walk through it.

There was a rustling sound on the stairs that led down to the kitchen, and then Neville appeared, apparently having run up the steps very quickly.

"Harry!" he exclaimed, launching himself across the remaining space and catching Harry in an exuberant hug that somehow made Harry feel even worse. "I am a moron and a fool and whatever else you want to call me," Neville said as he pressed his forehead to Harry's to look him in the eyes. "I am so, so sorry. I was wrong. We can work through this, we can work through anything—oh god, I'm so glad you came back..."

"Neville," Harry said in a choked voice. "I...I did something bad."

"Whatever it is, I don't care," Neville said, moving his head to rest on Harry's shoulder. "I forgive you in advance."

"I slept with Ginny."

The words had just come out, blunt as could be. They almost seemed to echo through the entryway, and Harry felt something inside him curl up and want to die. He wanted to cringe away from Neville's touch as every muscle in Neville's body stiffened. He very, very slowly released Harry to hold him at arm's length by the upper arms, studying him carefully. Harry bit his lip.

He knew that, as a wizard, he had a long life span ahead of him. Assuming he didn't get himself killed, he had a hundred years or more to look forward to. At that moment, he would give up every single second of them to erase the expression of shock, hurt, and wounding that angled Neville's eyebrows, drew a tightness to the corners of his eyes, and struck Harry to the very center of his soul.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," he said softly, hating the way his voice sounded—steady, controlled; surely he should be on his knees sobbing, surely there should be some sort of emotion in his voice, but he couldn't summon any up that wouldn't end in his chest bursting. "I never, ever meant to hurt you. I was...it was stupid. And selfish. I thought we were over, and I needed comfort, and..." Ah, there was the shaking of the voice, the thickness to the consonants, the burning in the eyes. "Neville, I am so sorry," he said, reaching out to touch Neville's shoulder.

Neville stepped back and away from his hand, wrenching Harry's heart to the side along with him. "I'm sorry," he said in a voice no louder than a whisper. It seemed to be the only thing he could say now, and he said it again, but no words came out and so his lips only made the shapes. He felt as though a knife were twisting through his ribs with every breath, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. He wiped them away hastily and took a great ragged breath. "I...god, Neville, I didn't do it to hurt you, I swear it..."

"No," Neville said softly. "You wouldn't do that. I know you too well." He took a deep breath himself and turned to lean on a table in the hallway. He shook his head, and suddenly made a fist and slammed it on the table. " _Dammit_ Harry!" he said with such force that Harry jumped. He turned and Harry's breath caught at the expression on Neville's face—hurt, disappointment, grief, anger, all rolled into something so profoundly painful that it made his insides twist. "Tell me, why don't I feel surprised? Why do I feel like the other shoe that I've been waiting for just dropped? Tell me, Harry, why have I been _expecting_ this?"

Harry couldn't breathe. "I don't know," he managed to choke. "I—I didn't ever mean—"

"No, and that's always the problem," Neville interrupted. "You never mean to do anything wrong. You never think about how anything you're ever doing could affect other people. I knew that one day that was going to come around and bite you in the ass and now it has and you've drawn me in for the collateral damage." He paused to rub his eyes and take a few deep breaths. "I was so stupid," he said in a tone that was suddenly helpless, his hands still over his eyes. "I should never have sent you away. I ruined us."

Harry's heart gave a lurch. "Neville, we're not...I don't want us to be ruined."

"Bit late," Neville said, bringing his hands down.

"No," Harry said, desperation suddenly vying for a spot in the roil of emotions bubbling within him. "No, Neville, we can't be—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, please, there's still something here for us—"

"There was!" Neville said forcefully. "There was when I sent that owl, hoping that I could do something to repair the damage I'd done! But things just went out of control and...Harry," he said, and there were tears in his voice, "We could have gotten over whatever was plaguing us before. But this?" He shook his head sadly. "I don't care that you thought we were through. Our bed hadn't even gotten cold before you were in Ginny's. Do you have any idea how much that _hurts_?" He flung the words like darts, clipped, precise, and they struck Harry right in the heart.

"No," he said as he lowered his face into his hands. "I don't. Do you have any idea how sorry I am? How much it hurts to know that I've hurt you this badly?"

"Go back to Ginny," Neville said with a sudden heat. "Maybe she'll nurse your hurt. Or your cock, whichever pleases you most."

The words hung in the air between them like a cloud of venom. Harry froze, stricken, as Neville's face softened slightly as if realizing the weight of what he'd said, but instead of saying anything further he turned and started up the stairs.

Harry tried once more. "Neville...please don't..."

"I'll be out by Tuesday," was the only reply before a door upstairs slammed.

Numbly, Harry opened the door and stepped outside. Paying hardly any attention at all, he turned on the spot and Disapparated back to the only place he could think of.

When Hermione answered the door again, he took one look at her still-angry expression and the fingernail-grip of control he had left fled. He threw himself forward with a great, primal sob and for a wonder she caught him and held him.

"I've lost him" was all he could say coherently, only dimly taking in the image of Ron and Ginny still at the breakfast table, Ron looking confused, Ginny pale with shock. "I've lost him and it's all my fault."

And then Ron and Ginny were there, one of them rubbing his back as he cried like he hadn't since childhood. Somehow he was sitting now, in the same chair Hermione had put him in yesterday, and she was holding his hand as Ron spread a blanket across his shoulders and Ginny sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, looking miserable.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, studying the carpet at her feet. "I didn't mean..." and then she was crying too, sobbing into her hands. Ron exchanged a baffled glance with Hermione, who shook her head in a distinct "not now" gesture. He knelt down next to his sister and pulled her into an awkward hug, which just seemed to make her cry harder.

"I'm going to take Ginny upstairs," Hermione said softly, letting go of Harry's hand. "You stay here with Harry. Make sure..." _he doesn't do anything stupid_ , she didn't need to say. Ron nodded and took Hermione's place on the arm of the chair, clasping Harry's hand. Hermione took Ginny by the shoulders and Ginny allowed herself to be pulled to standing and led out of the room.

It took some time before Harry could breathe without taking ragged gasps, and even longer until the sobs stopped shaking his shoulders. By the time he could raise his bleary eyes to look at Ron, he felt like a washrag that had been thoroughly wrung out, but the ache was still there in his chest that would have made him howl had he had the energy.

Ron nodded and stood up. "Come on," he said, pulling Harry up. Harry tried to shake him off but Ron tightened his grip and Harry relented, allowing himself to be led through the house to the basement.

Here was where Ron apparently kept his training equipment; Harry's attic was similarly equipped, with a Muggle punching bag and mats on the floor. Auror combat training was never officially complete, and Ron dealt with far more close, magic-free combat in his squad than most. Ron wordlessly tapped Harry's hand with his wand, causing tape to wrap itself around Harry's knuckles, then gestured at the punching bag.

"Get it all out," he said, stepping aside. "You're not nearly done."

After one half-hearted punch to the bag, Harry discovered that Ron was right—despite his exhaustion, there was still a vast reservoir of something inside him that now threatened to tear him apart if he didn't release it right this moment. Here was something that Hermione didn't understand, something that probably had never even occurred to her that he needed. He nodded grimly at Ron, who nodded back and retreated against the wall.

He threw himself into punishing the punching bag, after a short while not even caring about proper form, just hitting the bag until his arms burned and the tape on his knuckles was torn and unraveling. It wasn't until he missed the bag completely and fell over with the force of it that Ron grabbed him by the arm, hoisted him up, and dragged him to the guest room on the second floor of the house.

For the second time that weekend, Harry threw back a Dreamless Sleep flask like cheap whiskey and collapsed into bed in the middle of the morning, not even bothering to remove his shoes. The last thing he could dimly recall as sleep drew its black velvet cloak over him was Ron in the doorway saying to Hermione, "Tears me apart to see him like this," and Hermione responding, "I know. It's hard. What he's got to deal with is harder. He knows it's his fault."

* * *

Neville leaned against the door he'd just slammed, breathing hard, until he heard the front door click shut and he knew Harry was gone. He scrunched his eyes shut, holding his breath, trying to force the turmoil down into a manageable knot that he could safely ignore. He felt as though he should have tears on his cheeks, but as the colors swirled in his head he found the distance necessary to calm himself down.

His outburst had surprised him nearly as much as it had Harry. Neville didn't lash out; Harry had always been the passionate one, speaking without thinking, throwing his all into everything. Harry was the one who would be quickest reduced to tears, first to say things he didn't mean, and easiest to provoke into cutting off his nose to spite his face. Neville knew that he tended to internalize; he'd much rather brood over something than argue over it, much rather think his way through a problem than pounce on it with full steam. This was, he knew, part of what had caused them to begin drifting apart, but it was something that he had been sure they could reconcile.

And now he'd succeeded in driving Harry away.

Out of the comfort of habit more than anything, Neville drew a familiar flask from his pocket and unstoppered it. The bright, razor-thin lines that emerged from it like some infinitely complex musical score were not the source of comfort they had been previously; not only could Neville no longer decipher the future in the timelines, he also couldn't recall what his current actions had done to affect the future. What was immensely frustrating was that he remembered that he'd gleaned information, remembered being able to recall things that hadn't happened yet, and now those memories were hidden from him like a word he couldn't quite summon but knew the definition for.

Worse, it seemed that Harry no longer had any connection to what he and Neville had always called "their other life," the lives they'd lived until Time had uprooted them and sent them to correct minor errors that had led to the very collapse of time itself. The rules had obviously changed; not only were they living day-to-day rather than simply living—and changing—the significant events that needed to be changed, they were spending more and more time in the present moment, and the intervals when Neville could recall that there had ever been any other way were fewer and much farther between. And apparently Harry was completely oblivious.

"I don't understand," Neville murmured as he stared in bafflement at the lines dancing around him. "Why let me remember at all? Why not just let me be twenty-four years old, if I'm not going to be allowed to remember anything useful about the future?"

 _The future is now truly the future, not an alternate past like it once was._

Neville's head snapped up and he looked around for the source of the voice before realizing that nothing had actually been said; the words had simply registered in his brain as though someone had just spoken them. This had happened once before several years ago. He suddenly knew exactly what was going on, although why he would get a visitation now of all times was bemusing.

"I could always remember before. I always knew before that I was forty-one, and I could remember things in my life up until that point, even if they hadn't yet happened in the point of time I was in. Why the change? Why can't I remember anymore?"

 _You remembered because the timeline was similar enough to the one in which you originated that they were still one line. That timeline is no more, because you successfully changed it, splitting it into two and eliminating the first false one to which your memories were tethered. You've been remembering echoes of a future that never will be. You are starting over now, with a blank slate, and because mortals experience time in a linear fashion, you cannot remember a future that has not yet happened._

"But why make it so I can't remember anything I learned from these?" Neville waved a hand at the lines floating in the air. "I know that I used to be able to read them into the future. Why revoke that?"

 _You no longer need to know. Your choices will no longer prevent or cause the dissolution of Time._

"So why am I remembering at all right now? Why do I get to keep the flask?"

 _The flask will not appear to you again. From this point forward, despite what was told to you at the beginning of your journey, you will no longer recall the life you had, nor will you have those keen insights into the future that comforted you so. You shall weave your life's lines on your own, without guidance, as every other mortal does._

"But…the whole point of all of this was to get Harry and me together!" Neville protested, struggling to understand. "And now he's gone and I don't know why!"

 _That was not the point, that was the means to the point. What happens now will be the result of how you live your lives._ There was a pause. _I will offer you a small comfort that you shall retain: This current event that causes you so much grief is necessary to Harry's happiness in the future, as well as your own._

Neville blinked and shook his head. How long had he been sitting there, staring off into space? The clock on the bookshelf said it was only just barely ten in the morning, but how long ago had Harry left?

He swallowed hard against the nauseous feeling in his stomach. A part of him wanted to go immediately to Ron and Hermione's, where Harry must be right now, and do whatever it took to get him back. But a larger part, a part that ached with the knowledge but knew it to be true, knew that this was something that needed to happen. Much as it caused him grief, he and Harry had parted ways, and that was just the way it had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Confused? The end of this chapter refers to events and themes present in the parent story Revisionism. The rest of the story goes without these rude interruptions, but why leave yourself confused? Revisionism is available in its entirety right now and it's got some good bits in.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stared listlessly at the parchment in front of him, twirling his quill between his fingers. He was supposed to be picking out any odd pattern-breaking activities that had been reported about the ghost population, to try and pin down where the rogue necromancer was hiding, but the letters and words seemed to run together on the page and he found himself having to read the same line over and over.

A touch on his shoulder made him jump and straighten his glasses guiltily. "Sir," he said hurriedly as he recognized Jameson, his direct superior.

"Potter," Jameson said with a nod, helping himself to the seat next to Harry's desk. "Have a good weekend?"

"I've had better," Harry said evasively, attempting to inject some lightheartedness into the words. Jameson raised an eyebrow.

"You are wearing your badge upside down, I hope you realize," he pointed out. Harry glanced down at his chest and grimaced.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled as he reversed it.

"Evans mentioned that you've been staring into empty space all morning," Jameson continued. "And you look as though you haven't properly slept for a good while."

Harry swallowed. "It was a very bad weekend, sir." Hermione hadn't allowed him another flask of dreamless sleep, lest he grow dependent; he'd spent the night staring at the ceiling and enumerating the many ways in which he was a complete idiot.

"I figured as much. May I also assume that what happened this weekend is not something that will be recovered from quickly?" Jameson gave Harry a look that said, very plainly, _I am not going to intrude into your personal life, but I think I know exactly what is happening._

"You could say that," Harry said grimly. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll try harder to focus."

"On the contrary, Potter. You've not taken a personal holiday for four and a half years. I'm going to strongly recommend that you take advantage of the lull in necromantic activity lately and take some time off. Get your head back on right. Your second-in-command can take care of things until you're back in shape."

"Sir," Harry protested. "I really think I should stay at work."

"And I really think you shouldn't," Jameson countered as he stood up in preparation to leave. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I can't have anyone but the sharpest minds in command of this case. You're distracted. Go home and gather your wits. Don't make me remove you from the case entirely because of your pride."

Harry drew in a sharp breath that was not quite a gasp, then composed himself as best as he was able. "Sir, permission to take one week of personal holiday," he said in as even a voice as he could muster.

"Granted. In fact, make it two." Jameson glared as Harry opened his mouth in protest, then nodded as he shut it. "Feel better, Potter." His robes swished behind him as he turned and walked down the rows of desks toward his office.

Harry cast his gaze about his desk, disoriented. He was at a loss for what to do next. He straightened the stack of parchment, corked his ink bottle, set his quill just so. Then he sighed, rose from his chair, pushed it in, made sure his wand was in its holster, and left.

Once he'd made his way into the entrance lobby of the Ministry, feeling almost as though he were sleepwalking, he nearly Apparated to Grimmauld Place by accident before remembering that Neville might not be done moving out yet. He considered Apparating there anyway, on the off chance he might cross paths with him once more to plead for another chance; he shook his head, as though that would clear his thoughts, and made his way to Hermione and Ron's instead.

It was an odd contrast to yesterday. Yesterday, he'd been so full of emotion and grief that he'd felt he would split at the seams. Today, a dull emptiness seemed to echo through his chest and head, and he found it even more difficult to concentrate now he was away from work. He wandered up to the guest room that was his, changed out of his Ministry robes, placed them carefully on the hanger in the wardrobe. He busied himself for a good half an hour with his wand kit, waxing and polishing until the holly shone with a warm glow and the leather holster gleamed like new. He cleaned the smudges from his glasses. He wrote a long, pathetic letter to Neville that he promptly shredded into very small pieces, which he then threw into the living room fireplace and set to blazing with his wand before he got the mad urge to repair them and send them off with Ron's owl.

As he watched his words go up in flames, the door clicked behind him and he turned to look over his shoulder.

"'Lo, Ginny," he said in an empty voice.

"Harry? I thought you had work."

"They sent me home. I was distracted."

"Oh." Ginny slid her purse off her arm and deposited it on one of the kitchen chairs. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, before blurting "Harry, I'm so sorry that I—"

"It wasn't you," Harry interrupted her. "Not just you. I could have walked away any time I liked, and I didn't. It's my fault." He hugged himself, now, following Ginny's suit, and found it to be a poor substitute for an actual pair of arms.

"It's just as much my fault as yours," Ginny insisted. Harry considered that for a moment.

"Okay. Fine. But only for the—for that night. Everything else was my fault. My relationship was failing long before that night, and all we did was shut the lid on the coffin." He was surprised that he could speak of it so calmly. "And nailed it. And shoved it into the grave and dumped about a hundred stone of dirt on it."

"I don't think they nail coffin lids anymore," Ginny said, obviously attempting to lighten the mood of the conversation. It didn't work very well. Harry drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around those, and stared into the flames.

He could hear Ginny fidget slightly behind him. "I'll leave you alone now," she said finally, her voice coming from somewhere over where the stairs were.

"No," Harry said suddenly, unfolding himself to turn around and look at her. He hoisted himself off the floor and threw himself onto one of the sofas, patting the space next to him. "Come here."

Ginny hesitated, her face uncertain. Harry beckoned.

"Ignoring what we did isn't going to do anyone any good, and it's childish besides." Ginny looked as though she were having some sort of internal struggle, then almost shrugged and made her way to sit next to Harry. "I never did apologize for leaving the way I did that morning," Harry said, suddenly feeling somewhat awkward.

"Oh," Ginny said. She waved her hand dismissively. "I never saw it that way."

"It was still tremendously disrespectful," Harry insisted. "I'm a better person than that. And..." the concept that had been hiding timidly in the back of his mind peeked around a corner and Harry grasped at it, trying to find words to describe it. "Look. I don't take what we did lightly. And unless you've changed a great deal since school, I know you don't treat sex as just a fun game either. I..."

"Harry, I know what you're trying to say," Ginny said quietly, "And I thank you for looking out for my feelings. And at the risk of hurting yours, it's best to be honest—I was looking for comfort that night. I was looking for a chance to feel wanted by someone. I had thought that you were looking for the same thing. I'm sorry if I misread you." She turned slightly so that she could lock eyes with Harry. "I treat sex as something serious, too. But sometimes it's just something that happens. And that's the long and short of it."

"Oh." Harry had to admit that the tinge of regret he felt was far outweighed by relief.

"That was your first time with someone other than Neville, wasn't it?" Ginny asked softly, as though it had just occurred to her. Harry nodded, grateful that the numbness that was today's theme kept a lump from rising in his throat. "Oh god." She lowered her face into one hand. "I did so much wrong by you," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"Um," Harry said, feeling as though he should be saying something, "Well, I did enjoy myself, in the moment, if that counts for anything."

"And was it worth tearing your life apart for?" Ginny asked shrewdly.

Harry didn't even have to consider it. "No."

"Then please let me apologize for treating it as something other than what you're used to." She sighed.

Harry felt very odd. Given the closeness they'd shared, he felt as though he should be holding her right then, or be held by her, but her body language made it very clear that she would accept nothing of the sort. A dramatic little voice inside him sang a tale of woe that he had been dumped by two people that weekend, although that was a ridiculous way to think of it. Knowing it was ridiculous didn't make it any quieter.

"It'll be easier to process if we don't see each other for a while," Ginny said kindly, patting his knee. "I only came here to get my things—my landlord is giving me the keys to my new flat today. You're welcome to come visit, of course, but...give it some time. It takes some mental gymnastics to separate sex from love if you're unaccustomed to the concept." She leaned over to kiss him warmly on the cheek, got up from the couch, and disappeared up the stairs before Harry could figure out anything else to say.

* * *

Tuesday morning, Harry woke up after a fitful night's sleep filled with dreams of Neville and Ginny both sadly shaking their heads at him, asking him if he was really so stupid as to think that anyone would _want_ to be with him. It was not an auspicious start to the day.

As he readied himself to leave, collecting the pieces of his life that had somehow become scattered over the two days he'd sought sanctuary, a nauseous feeling of anxiety began to flutter in his chest. The notion of returning to Grimmauld Place to find it emptied of all companionship...

By noon he had no further excuses to stay. He'd said his farewells and thank yous to Ron and Hermione that morning at breakfast; he'd straightened the guest room he'd used and even cleaned the bathroom; his bag was packed. He locked the door behind him, dropped the key they'd lent him through the mail slot, and turned on the spot.

Grimmauld Place didn't look any different, but as Harry opened the door he could swear it felt different. Lonely. Empty. He knew it was just his imagination, but it even seemed as though his footsteps echoed more loudly as he went up the stairs to the bedroom that, for as long as it had been his, had also been Neville's.

Neville had made the bed before he'd left, a chore that Harry had always avoided whenever he could. The sight of the perfectly centered duvet offset by the single pillow on what had always been "his side" struck a wistful note deep inside him. The fights and the time away from home and even the space where Neville's wardrobe had once stood had not managed to hammer home the fact that Neville was gone; the lone pillow on the bed was the final confirming piece.

There was no one to tell him that he was being ridiculous as he snatched his pillow from the bed, a blanket from the closet in the hall, and made himself a bed of sorts on the couch in the living room. He tried to ignore the holes on the shelves where books about plants and herbological theory had once lived alongside the true crime, but they were large gaps, and numerous, mute testimony to the exodus of one half of Harry's life.

Each thing he noticed struck another note within him until it seemed as though his entire body was thrumming with a sad minor chord that went on forever. A new box on the kitchen table labeled "photos" undoubtedly held the framed pictures of them that had been scattered throughout the house; Harry didn't have the courage to open it and look. He'd left the cooking utensils but taken his whiskey glasses, leaving round imprints in the dust on the liquor cabinet's shelf. Harry barked out a sad laugh to see the shower curtain gone; he'd always hated the pink monstrosity that Neville had always insisted was "mauve" and would find a way to smuggle back into the house whenever Harry tried to throw it away. Well, he'd finally won—he could have whatever shower curtain he wanted now.

The thought did not make him feel any better.

His shambling tour of his home over, he felt sick to his stomach and an oppressive weight seemed to bear down on his chest. It had not been gutted of possessions, as he and Neville had really owned very little, but it only accentuated the absence. Knowing he was being foolish, he dumped a drawer of clothing into a laundry bin and took that with him to the living room, closing the bedroom door firmly behind him. He had no intentions of going back into that room for a good while.

* * *

Time passed, as time is wont to do. Finally driven stir crazy by the walls of his own house, Harry returned to work and threw himself into his investigation with such gusto that it drew remarks from the hit-wizards and other Aurors under his command. He came in to work early and stayed late, went out into the field personally to investigate, and could be heard cursing a blue steak a mile wide when he arrived in Wakefield mere hours after his quarry had packed up and left for elsewhere.

Involved in the case as he was, it was with surprise that he regarded Hermione's note left on his desk one Monday afternoon, delivered while he'd sipped coffee in the breakroom and listened halfheartedly to the intern's tales of her weekend.

 _Harry,_

 _Hope you're doing well. We haven't seen nor heard much from you, but Ron says that you're making real headway on your case, which is brilliant, I know it was giving you problems._

 _I'm writing to let you know that Molly's invited us all round to their place for Christmas, and I thought I'd give you fair warning that Neville was invited too. He's not responded yet. Molly told me she wasn't going to play favorites, that you two are both like her sons and she's not going to exclude either of you._

 _Let me know by owl if you'll be coming so that I can make your dish for the potluck. I know you're a horrid cook._

 _Love,_

 _Hermione_

Harry glanced at the calendar on his desk in surprise. Was it really the end of December already? It seemed like just last week he'd been watching Neville sweat under a heap of parchment, planning his first lesson...

His throat constricted warningly and his mind shied away from that line of thought, but was brought back forcefully as the full import of what the letter had said connected in his mind. If his calendar was correct, then he might be seeing Neville on Sunday. His body and mind didn't seem to be able to come to terms with that piece of information. His heart gave an odd little lurch as his inner thoughts began listing the things he should do before then—a haircut, definitely, and he'd have to shave—before he knuckled down and gave himself a mental shake.

There was very little point in the charade. Neville had made no effort to keep in contact, and Harry had followed his lead. The break had been painful but clean. If— _if_ —Neville was there on Sunday...

He quailed a tiny bit. Now that the floodgate was open, it was difficult to close again. The longing and heartbreak he thought he'd shut away for good was just as raw and fresh as when he'd first felt it, and he was glad he was sitting down because had he not been, he'd have needed to collapse into a chair. He knew, without a doubt, that were he to walk in to the Weasley kitchen and see Neville, he'd break down. That's all there was to it. Not only would be embarrass himself in front of everyone whose opinions he cared about, he'd also be proving beyond a shadow of a doubt how badly he was taking this breakup, and he refused to let Neville see that.

He scrawled a quick memo to Ron, letting him know to tell Hermione that he wouldn't be attending, sent it off toward his desk, and sat back in his chair, his heart thudding oddly for no particular reason.

"Crisis averted," he said softly to himself, picking up his quill again for the sake of having something to hold. He wasn't sure why he felt so empty, and set to reading the latest report on his desk to distract himself.

The week passed in odd dollops of time, during which Harry constantly second-guessed his decision. He was a man, now, wasn't he? Surely he could hold himself together in front of his ex-boyfriend for the span of one day. He went so far as to pen a note to Hermione telling her he'd bring his own potluck dish, thank you very much, before his nerves got the better of him and he crumpled the parchment.

He sent his squad home early the Friday before Christmas, intending to get some work done while their corner of the floor was empty but finding that the quiet was really more intruding than listening to Henkle wax poetic about his girlfriend's fig pudding. Well aware that the rest of the Ministry had also ducked out early aside from the few dozen workaholics like himself, he decided to give up and head home. It was quiet there, too, but at least he could read a book and not feel guilty about getting paid for being useless.

It was that odd gray-blue light of winter twilight when he lit a lamp and settled down into a chair in the living room with a mystery novel and a glass of whiskey. A tumbler, as he'd never gotten around to buying new whiskey glasses, but the whiskey wasn't good enough to merit a special purchase. He'd just taken his first sip and thumbed to the first page when there was a knock at the door that nearly startled him right out of his chair.

He checked the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past five and last he'd checked it was snowing outside. Everyone he knew would be descending upon the Weasley household for the holiday weekend. Who on earth would be at his door?

The knock sounded again and Harry tossed his book on the chair as he stood up. It sounded again, more impatient this time, as he made his way across the hall.

"I'm coming," he shouted as he unbolted the door and swung it open. Red hair and snowflakes filled his vision and his mouth dropped open in surprise. "Ginny. What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at your parents'."

"I'm heading there, but I need to talk to you first," she said in a very no-nonsense tone. "And you should probably be sitting down."

"Sure," Harry said slowly, a horrible realization starting to take root in his brain. "Come in."

He led her to the living room where she pointedly ignored the pillow and blanket on the couch, opting for the chair across from the one Harry chose. Harry took a deep breath, steeled himself, and looked across at her. "Okay. Go."

"I've just left the Healer," she said in a voice that shook just slightly. "I'm pregnant. You're the father. He's due in June."


	4. Chapter 4

A tinny whine seemed to start up in his ears as Harry processed what Ginny had just said. He somehow felt as though he'd been hit in the chest with a powerful stunning spell.

"Say what?" he asked stupidly.

"You heard me," Ginny responded. She rubbed her eyes.

"Didn't we...I mean, I thought we...took precautions," Harry said, trying to make his brain start working again.

"Harry, sometimes those don't work, especially if one or both of the parents is magically powerful...didn't you know?" Ginny asked in astonishment. Harry shook his head.

"Never had a mum to sit me down and, well, explain it...never really had occasion to figure it out, either, not like two blokes really have to worry about getting pregnant..." Harry lowered his face into his hands. "Your mother is going to _kill_ me," he moaned.

"Forget Mum, Ron's the one you'll have to watch out for," Ginny said crisply. "And Percy. And Charlie. And Bill. And George. George in particular."

Harry moaned into his hands again.

"Oh, be quiet. It's not as bad as all that."

"You didn't just get a girl with a Quidditch team's worth of older brothers pregnant," Harry retorted. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"They know I'm not a perfect princess. Come to think of it, they'll probably be glad it's yours and not someone else's. Once they stop to think about it, anyway."

"Are you sure it is?" Harry asked. He realized how terrible the words sounded as he was saying them, but it was far too late to take them back. He tried to backpedal quickly. "What I mean to say is—er—I don't mean any offense—"

"You try so hard to be a gentleman it's almost endearing," Ginny said fondly. "Yes. You are without a doubt the father. Not only are there spells for that sort of thing, but the timing is right."

"You're taking this awfully calmly," Harry said, lacing his fingers together to stop them from shaking. Ginny shrugged.

"I'm at a good point in my life to raise a child. With or without the father around."

"With, of course," Harry said, surprised. His face must have shown how wounding the remark was, because Ginny reached over and tousled his hair, startling him.

"I was going to leave it up to you," Ginny said seriously, her smile melting off her face. "If you want no part of this...my job is surprisingly cushy, I'll not want for anything, and trust me—I know that being involved will make it difficult for you and Nev—"

"Neville's not in the picture anymore," Harry said firmly, and his eyes only tightened slightly at the corners as he stated the truth baldly. "And even if he were, he'd know that I have to do the right thing. I'm involved. End of story." He hesitated, then knelt down in front of her chair and reached out awkwardly to lay his hand flat on her midriff. It was an unfamiliar gesture, one that felt oddly intimate. "A boy, you said?" he asked, trying to force himself to remain calm and push the utter terror to one side to be dealt with later. He failed only slightly, in that his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Ginny must have noticed, because she placed her hand over his.

"A boy. Healthy so far. No reason he won't stay that way. I come from a long line of witches of robust fertility, you know."

"I'd noticed," Harry said dryly. He took a deep breath. "I'm a father," he said slowly, trying out the word. A little flutter of panic threatened to make him giggle with hysteria and he stamped it down. He tilted his chin up to look at Ginny. She smiled at him, and he was startled to see that her eyes were shining with what looked like tears. "What's wrong?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing's wrong, you dolt," she said, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. "I'm just...this is a happy moment. Or at least a relieved moment. I was worried you'd take it very badly." She smiled and leaned over to hug him quickly. "I should have known better, knowing you as I do."

Harry nodded slowly, still trying to process events. Him. A father. It was something he'd never thought he'd be able to call himself, and suddenly it was a title he'd earned quite by accident. "You know that pretty little speech you gave me, about separating sex and love?" Ginny nodded. Harry gestured. "Where exactly in the continuum does this fall?"

"I don't know," Ginny said simply. "I imagine we'll work it out as we go along."

Harry nodded absently and leaned back on his haunches. "So...now what?"

Ginny took a deep breath, her self-assured air dissipating somewhat as she exhaled. "We tell my family."

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. He sighed. "I guess I'm heading to your parents' place for Christmas after all."

Ginny nodded. "You'd best pack. And quickly."

"I'll be right back," Harry promised, standing up and grabbing the overnight bag that he'd never gotten around to putting away a little over two months ago.

A quick duck to the laundry room provided him with the clothing he'd need for the weekend, but Harry paused as he passed by the unused drawing room on the way back to the living room. He considered a moment, then entered, drawing his wand to tap on one of the portraits, which studied him up and down before swinging forward and revealing a hollow in the wall.

The hollow did not contain much: two small dark wooden boxes and some rolls of parchment wrapped in cloth. Harry reached for the smaller of the two boxes and pocketed it before swinging the portrait shut and walking with slightly more purpose to the living room.

"I don't know how Neville is going to handle this bit of news," Harry warned as he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder. "And—should you be Apparating with a baby?"

"No. I hope you have some Floo Powder. And Neville's not coming—something about spending his first Christmas as assistant professor at the Hogwarts feast."

As Harry led Ginny to the kitchen and the fireplace, he wasn't sure how to describe his current emotional state. He was fairly certain he was in an advanced stage of shock, and that was what kept him from feeling the relief and pang of regret too keenly. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to handle the events of today and seeing Neville again without having to curl into the fetal position and fend everyone off like a tortoise for several days afterward.

After Ginny had disappeared into the emerald green flames, he took a very deep breath before tossing his handful of powder in and stepping into the flames. The rest of the evening was not going to be easy.

"The Burrow!" He announced, and he began spinning.

There was no going back now.

* * *

As he wiped ash from his mouth with the back of his hand and blinked rapidly, noises of surprise sounded from in front of him.

"Well, look at what the cat dragged in!" came Molly Weasley's delighted voice, and then he was being hugged, despite the ash still streaking his jacket. Harry coughed and blinked hard once more before hurriedly putting his glasses back on.

"Harry!" Hermione said, getting up from her chair to join what seemed to be a queue to hug him. "I'd hoped you'd change your mind and come!"

Hugs were dispensed all around; Harry took inventory of who was here as he was pulled against shoulders and greeted. Bill and Fleur were in attendance with five-year-old Victoire, who had a great deal of her father about her face but Fleur's silvery hair and willowy frame; Charlie clapped his back heartily; Andromeda Tonks embraced him gently and pushed forward his very shy godson Teddy for a pat on the head; Percy opted for a warm handshake rather than an embrace, beaming as he introduced his new fiancee Audrey; George, still conspicuously a bachelor and just as conspicuously enjoying it, pinched his bottom just for the reaction it would get from him (just as startled as the first time he'd done it, as George well knew); Ron and Hermione, of course, fairly threw themselves at him and he was hard-pressed to peel them away; Arthur and Molly, Arthur looking perhaps a little grayer than when Harry had seen him last, began and ended the greeting ritual with warm welcoming embraces that felt more like home than Harry had experienced in a long time. Ginny stood to one side once she was done receiving her hugs, and if she was nervous, she hid it well.

"All right, all right," Mrs. Weasley said, beaming, "Give him some breathing room now. Harry, there's some space and a bed in George's old room if you want to go put your bag down and change out of your ashy clothes. Dinner will be on in a few minutes, so off you go. Ginny, Mrs. Tonks and Teddy are up in your old room—"

"Oh, we don't mind sharing at all—"

"Right, then. Harry, you should have Kreacher stop by from Hogwarts and clean your fireplace for you, you're both all over soot. Away with you! Not another word!" She actually made a shooing gesture with her apron, and Harry couldn't help but laugh as he hoisted his bag to his shoulder again and made his way up the winding staircase to what had once been the twins' room.

In a clean shirt and the worst of the soot brushed out of his hair and off his trousers, Harry stepped back into the stairwell and waited, his heart beating slightly faster in anticipation. Soon enough, he heard a door shut upstairs and Ginny begin her descent.

"Ginny," he said as she got to the landing. The light was dim here, but it was bright enough to make her hair catch the light and shine. Harry swallowed hard.

"What is it, Harry?" Ginny asked after he'd licked his lips and tried to begin speaking several times. Harry took a deep breath and decided to just do it.

"I suppose I'd better do this properly," he said, sinking down to one knee. He fumbled slightly as he drew the small wooden box from his pocket, opening it to showcase the gold band inside; the brilliant clear stone set in it gleamed even in the dim light.

"Harry," Ginny said sharply, "What the devil are you doing?"

"Um, well, I thought it was obvious," he said, blinking. "I'm proposing."

Ginny snorted. "Do you even really want to marry me?"

Harry considered. "Not really, no, but—look, you're spoiling it."

"And I'm about to spoil it even more. No, I'm not going to marry you, you dolt. Now get up, you look ridiculous." She reached down and pulled him to his feet. He felt rather like he'd been riding a broomstick that had braked to a dead stop in midair, but he'd kept going. She laughed and pulled him into a hug. "Always the gentleman," she said admiringly. "But you have to admit, you are chock full of bad ideas."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he protested. "And it still seems like a good idea for our son to have two parents who—"

"It's a better idea for him to have two parents who get along," Ginny interrupted, "And trust me, we would drive each other absolutely barmy if we were married." She laughed and shook her head. "Don't think I don't know your dirty little secret, that the great Harry Potter, fearless leader, much prefers to have someone else in charge of him." Her eyes danced as Harry blinked, slightly taken aback.

"Most people don't pick up on that," he said slowly. "They'd assume—"

"And that's why it's your dirty little secret," Ginny said mischievously. "Although really, one would probably have to sleep with you to figure it out. You're very docile in bed, darling." Harry sputtered and Ginny patted him on the cheek, obviously enjoying throwing him off stride. "And while it may seem like I'm having a great deal of fun bossing you about, really—I need the same thing you do." She smiled with a crooked little self-deprecating twist. "We'd go in endless circles of deferring to one another and nothing would ever get done." She kissed Harry softly on the cheek then. "Don't think I don't appreciate the gesture," she said quietly, in a more serious manner. "Or understand where it's coming from. You are a gentleman, Harry, a dying breed, to be sure. I'm glad that you're that father of my child, but that doesn't mean you have to be my husband." She took him by the hand. "Shall we go break the news?"

Harry's eyes widened of their own accord. "Now? Shouldn't we wait until...well, until Christmas is over and I can make a clean getaway? George and Ron might get in each others' way trying to rip me to shreds but Charlie fights dragons, he's agile—"

"Oh, hush. I'll break it gently. If they still want to rip you to pieces, you can Apparate out." She considered for a moment. "I might have to hold back Hermione," she said thoughtfully. "Her fingernails are kind of sharp."

Harry hadn't even thought of what Hermione's reaction would be. "On second thought, I think I'll just Apparate home right now."

"Five minutes ago you were ready to spend the rest of your life with me," Ginny pointed out. "I think you've got the courage to face my family."

"Five minutes ago I was going to face your family having done the right thing and proposed to you," Harry countered.

"You still did it. I refused. If it's so important to you I'll make sure they know it." She cocked her head to the side. "Where on earth did you get that ring, anyway?"

Harry looked down at the box still in his hand. "It was my mother's. At least I assume it was. It was in my vault at Gringott's."

Ginny smiled sadly, reached out to close his hand over the ring box. "We really should go down to dinner."

Harry slipped the box back into his pocket and steeled himself, staring down the stairwell. "All right. Let's go."

* * *

"So how's work going, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she finally sat down, having run out of bowls and platters to move to the table. "Ron keeps us posted on this necromancer deal you have on your plate. It's become rather high-profile, hasn't it?"

Harry finished chewing and swallowed the bite of roast hastily. "Stupidly high-profile. Thankfully not due to any ineptitude on my part. This bloke's tremendously difficult to track down. When your victims are all already dead anyway, it's hard to find evidence..." he shrugged. "They'll be assigning more resources to it in the new year," he continued. "I'll have two other junior Aurors under me, a few more hit-wizards, and even some more support from the Department of Departed Magical Persons, they've been rather closed-mouthed about the whole thing, embarrassed probably."

"Well, hopefully you'll get to the bottom of it all soon," Mr. Weasley said, helping himself to more mashed potatoes. "What's this fellow doing, anyway? We don't hear about it much in my department."

"At first he was just killing other ghosts," Harry said. "Then he started forcing already-dead wizards and witches into becoming ghosts."

"Oh dear," Fleur said. "That's terrible."

"Sorry," Percy's fiancee Audrey said, "But why's it terrible?"

"When someone dies, they've got a choice to go on or not," Harry explained. He didn't entirely expect everyone at the table to know that he had firsthand knowledge of this, but those who didn't know could just assume he'd done research. "Most choose to go on. Only those who are afraid of death, or too selfish to give up life, come back as ghosts. But they're ghosts forever; there's no dying once you're a ghost. You've opted to be released from the cycle of birth and death, so you're out for eternity."

"So if you've made peace with death," Hermione interjected, "And you're forcefully brought back..."

"Ah," Audrey said, her eyes wide. "But didn't you say this necromancer is killing ghosts?"

"He's removing their ability to assume a visible form," Harry clarified. "They can't manifest, can't interact. Everything they've held onto is taken away from them, and they've got eternity to do nothing but be present without being able to affect anything." He shook his head sadly. "It's a terrible fate for those who have chosen to become ghosts. A worse one for those who didn't choose it in the first place."

A silence floated over the table. Harry cast about for a change of topic. "Ron, what are you working on right now?"

"Nothing," Ron said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley looked disapprovingly at him, and he swallowed before continuing. "Oddest year we've had for a while, normally you get all sorts of dark magic around the holidays for whatever reason. But not a dickey bird."

"Another roll, Ginny?" Charlie asked, offering the bread basket as he removed one for himself.

"No thanks," Ginny said brightly. "I've already got a bun in the oven."

The fledgling conversation didn't so much screech to a halt as wind down excruciatingly like a catastrophic failure of a very large clock. Mouths snapped shut or gaped open, faces were frozen mid-chew, and all eyes were directed at Ginny as though by magnetism. She continued to cut her meat, unfazed, the only one moving.

Harry leaned over slightly. "That was breaking it to them gently?" he asked in a low voice, as realization began to spread round the table like an inkblot.

"I've been waiting for that line all evening," she said back. "Good one, wasn't it?"

Charlie was still holding the bread basket aloft; he slowly lowered it. Harry glanced around the table, looking for warning signs that he should prepare to bolt. "Masterful," he responded, "But it's possible it could have been handled with a bit more...tact."

"Tact is for those who aren't clever enough for a witty remark," Ginny said dismissively. "Oh, come now," she said, directing her gaze around the table, "Stop blinking like owls and say something."

"You're pregnant?" Ron blurted. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Stop blinking like owls and say something _intelligent_ ," she clarified.

"How?" George asked.

"The usual way." Despite her quips, Harry could see that she was gripping her knife hard enough to turn her knuckles white, and it was taking a great deal of effort for her to keep her composure. He himself felt a bit like a statue.

"And who is the father?" Mrs. Weasley asked, apparently completely calm but definitely a bit wild around the eyes.

Ginny jerked her head in Harry's direction; Harry could feel all the eyes slide over to him. The room felt like it was pulsating along with his pounding heart.

"I didn't know you two were..." Mr. Weasley trailed off.

"We're not," Ginny said. "Happened anyway, though."

Harry felt as though Ginny was not doing him any favors with her lackadaisical presentation of the situation. His evaluation was confirmed as Ron stood up, pushing his chair back, saying "Oy! That's my sister!"

"Oh well spotted," Ginny said acidly. "Sit down, Ronald. Eat your potatoes."

"Don't speak to your brother that way," Mrs. Weasley snapped. Her eyes were very sharp, and next to her, Hermione's eyes also seemed as though they'd recently seen a whetstone. "Explain yourself."

"I don't see a real need to, Mum," Ginny said calmly, though now she was bouncing her leg under the table. "I'm a grown witch. Harry's a grown wizard. We got myself pregnant. We're going to have a baby. Not an odd occurrence, when you think about it."

George was glaring at Harry, and Harry wasn't sure whether he was cracking his knuckles out of habit or threateningly. Even Percy had an angry gleam in his eye. He felt very much like a trapped animal.

"An occurrence that happens to a husband and wife—" Mrs. Weasley began. Ginny held up a hand that, Harry admired, did not shake, though it likely took all her willpower to keep it from doing so.

"You and Dad weren't married when you had Bill," she said matter-of-factly. "And if you thought we'd never figure that out, well. You weren't even married until you were pregnant with Charlie."

"We weren't of age, and we got married as soon as we were," Mrs. Weasley said sharply, "And that's what I expect you'll be doing first thing—"

"Harry already tried," Ginny said quickly. "I said no."

The amount of heat directed at him reduced palpably. Harry felt like he could breathe slightly more easily.

"You what?" Percy asked, apparently taken aback at the notion of not making something official.

"I told him I didn't want to marry him," Ginny said matter-of-factly, "As I don't. Didn't I, Harry?"

Harry nodded enthusiastically. He didn't seem to be able to find his voice.

"He was very sweet about it," Ginny went on, "proposed with his mother's ring and everything. He's all about doing the right thing, which is why we're going to raise our son together, but I'm not going to get married just because we're having a child."

"You proposed to my sister?" Ron asked in a tone of astonishment mixed with anger. Harry nodded solemnly. He couldn't help but notice that Hermione's glare had softened slightly; she was now a steak knife rather than a dagger.

He opened his mouth, and for a wonder, words started coming out. "I—we—never intended for it to happen," he said in a shaky voice. "But now it has, and I've a responsibility, and _oh god please don't hurt me_ ," he said in one rush as George and Ron both stood up again.

"Boys," Mr. Weasley said sternly. They both sat back down. He turned his gaze to Harry. Harry swallowed, then addressed the table.

"I'm sorry to cause trouble," he said, gaze moving between each of the Weasleys in turn. "And I know you're angry at me, and I apologize for my bad judgment calls. But I'm not sorry Ginny and I are—are going to have a son." He took a deep breath and continued. "It's not something I regret, or ever will regret. I'm going to take care of her as much as she'll allow, and be there for our son, and if that's not good enough for you..."

A pin would have echoed throughout the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley sighed and it sounded like gale-force winds.

"You're not going to budge, are you, Ginny?" she asked. Ginny shook her head resolutely. Silence reigned again until Andromeda cleared her throat.

"It may not be my place to say," she said tentatively, "But it would seem, as we've exhausted all reasons to be angry, that a bit of celebration is in order?"

"Celebration?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Certainly. You and your brothers-in-law are going to have a new nephew. Isn't that exciting?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, a bit too heartily. "Yeah, it is." He snapped his fingers and flagons of Butterbeer appeared in front of every plate. "Oh, sorry Ginny, not for you—" hers vanished—"Come on," he said as everyone looked as though he'd said something very rude at a funeral, "To Ginny and Harry," he said, raising his flagon, "And to their son—who, if blood tells, will be a brilliant wizard."

There was a frozen moment of time as everyone looked at their flagons, then back to Charlie, as though he were mad. Then, slowly, Ron reached out and grasped the handle of his, lifting it in grudging salute. At that, the rest of the crowd around the long table followed suit, and the relief that crashed down on Harry was so strong that he felt rather dizzy. Mr. Weasley loudly observed that it was snowing, and the rest of the table chimed in, desperate to fill up the silence with something normal.

Under the table, Ginny squeezed his hand. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?" she whispered.

"I still don't want to be left alone with any of them for a while," Harry whispered back. Ginny glanced around, where the air was not so much that of a celebration as a cease-fire.

"Point taken," she said. "They'll come round." She squeezed his hand again. He squeezed back. "This isn't even the hard part," she said thoughtfully. "We've still got a pregnancy to get through and a son to raise."

"Am I likely to be dismembered by six blokes bigger and older than me during that?"

"Probably not?"

"Then it'll be a piece of cake." Harry took a sip of his own Butterbeer then, feeling grimly triumphant that, for now at least, he didn't seem to need to fear for his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry spent Christmas Eve hiding.

He'd never admit he was hiding, of course, not in so many words, but he woke early and very pointedly dressed and left The Burrow before the morning sky had even begun to lighten.

The fields surrounding The Burrow were a dull snowy gray, monochrome against the gray clouds so it was difficult to tell where horizon ended and sky began. His breath clouded in front of his lips as he walked through the snow to the low stone wall at the edge of the property and brushed away a place to sit. All around him was the hush of an early winter morning, all the small sounds of waking up muffled by the frozen white blanket.

It was the first moment he'd had properly to himself since Ginny had knocked on his door not twelve hours before. He desperately needed a moment or two to think, but now that he was alone, all that seemed to fill his mind was a high-pitched buzz. A thousand different things were vying for his attention and didn't want to queue properly so he could think about them in an orderly manner.

One thing pushed to the forefront, the memory of Hermione pulling him aside as he excused himself from company for the evening, whispering to him, "What about Neville?"

"What about him?" he'd whispered back. "He made it clear we're through. We haven't even spoken since we broke up. I don't see that this has anything to do with him."

"Harry, he'll want to know," Hermione had told him. "You were friends first, and you'll be friends again, someday, once everything stops hurting—"

"It'll never stop hurting," Harry had interrupted. "It hasn't yet, and I've no hopes it ever will." He'd stamped down the sudden stab of grief and longing, but Hermione saw it before he could, and bit her lip. Harry had shaken his head. "Tell him if it makes you happy. I'm going to bed before the torches and pitchforks come out."

Truth was, he didn't know how he felt about Neville knowing. He'd find out eventually, of course; he corresponded with too many people for it to be kept a secret for long. Would Neville be happy for him? Or would he see his son as a physical representation of the act that had torn them apart?

Harry scrunched his eyes shut as the forbidden thought finally came to the forefront of his brain. No. He was not going to allow himself to think like that. Neville could think that all he wanted, but Harry refused to think of his son, his and Ginny's son, with the stigma of what that evening had done to his life. It was a disgusting thought and one that he felt ashamed had even surfaced. He shunted it off into a corner and forbade it to ever show itself again.

That line of thought banished, a new one wiggled to the front of his mind, though it wasn't a new thought at all but one that had visited so many times that the corners had been worn off. It was of Neville, of course, a long list of could-have-beens and should-have-dones, the thick-throat feeling of wanting nothing more than to be in his arms, the twisting sensation in his chest of needing something so badly that could never be had. This feeling was an old pain, almost a friend now, and one that he poked like one runs a tongue over a sore tooth or prods a bruise, to see if it still hurts.

He allowed himself a little self-pity. Christmas Eve, his first without the man he'd always considered his soulmate, stuck at a house full of people who were displeased with him at best and furious with him at the worst. To leave now would only make his situation worse and probably cause Ginny undue pain. He knew that he could be the man he needed to be now, but he was certain that he would need to spend a good portion of the next several years proving it to the family he'd just alienated. As far as he could tell, Hermione and Andromeda were the only ones willing to speak to him; Andromeda had closeted him by the fire after dinner, shielding him from the barely concealed glares of everyone else in the room with a spirited recount of Teddy's latest adventures, for which Harry was quite grateful. When he'd finally gone up to bed, George had rolled over and put his back to him when he walked in the room, though to be fair, it was possible he'd been asleep.

As the clouds lightened from gray to white and Harry stopped feeling cold and started feeling just plain numb, he trudged back across the yard and let himself into the blessedly warm kitchen, where Mrs. Weasley was already up and fussing with the coffeepot.

"Good morning," she said, a little stiffly. Harry's face fell slightly, and Mrs. Weasley seemed to notice, because she paused in what she was doing, sighed, and held her arms out. It took a moment before Harry realized she was offering him a hug. Bewildered, he stepped into it, and she patted him on the back.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you two," she said as she let go and held him at arm's length, "But you're still family, and we still love you. And you're freezing, dear, go sit by the fire before you catch a chill." She turned him and gave him a little push into the living room, where the fireplace was already roaring. Harry gratefully sank onto a squashy couch nearest the flames and felt himself begin to thaw.

It wasn't long before the rest of the Weasleys and their spouses began to stir; as they filed into the kitchen, yawning, Harry felt very conspicuous, and as soon as George had stumbled across the threshold he fled back to the room where he was staying, with no further plans to emerge and bother anyone else that day.

It wasn't hiding, not exactly. He was sure that if anyone wanted to come find him, they would—but nobody did until Ron brought him a sandwich around midday.

"It's salami," he said by way of greeting, and Harry almost thought he was going to plunk the plate down on the desk and leave sullenly. Instead, he surprised Harry by setting it on the nightstand between the two beds and taking a seat on the edge of the other bed.

"All right, Ron?" Harry asked after an awkward moment of the two of them staring at the sandwich.

"I've been talking with Ginny," Ron finally said. "She's thrilled you two're having a kid. How am I supposed to hate you when you've made her happy?"

"I'll try to be more despicable straight away," Harry said, reaching for the sandwich.

"But it's supposed to be my sworn duty as her brother to protect her from things like this," Ron protested mock-pompously. "It's in the manual and everything." Harry sighed and began counting off on his fingers.

"One: I didn't do anything wrong. Neither did she. Stupid, yes; wrong, no. Two: no one actually got hurt. Well, I mean, I did...and Neville did..." Harry's mouth twisted. "Okay, rephrase: _Ginny_ didn't actually get hurt, and that's who we're talking about here. Three: do you really think Ginny needs protecting? She's been holding her own since she was thirteen, and she knew exactly what we were getting into. Four: I mean to do right by her. She won't let me marry her, which I suppose is a bit of a relief, to be honest, but I'm going to do everything she lets me and a fair few things she wouldn't if she knew about them. You know me, Ron." He met Ron's eyes unflinchingly. "I may still have to prove myself as a father, but you know the kind of friend I am."

"Yeah," Ron admitted, "Yeah, I do." He furrowed his brow. "What kind of stuff wouldn't she let you do?"

"I'm meeting with Gringotts first thing Tuesday, for one," Harry said, judging that now it was finally safe to pick up the sandwich. "Our jobs are dangerous, you know that. If something happens to me, she and our son need to be provided for. You can imagine how well that'd go over with her."

"Point," Ron agreed. "She's got more pride than a hippogriff. She was chewing her liver when she asked to stay with us, but it was either us or Mum and Dad, and there was no way she was going to ask them for help."

"You know I'll take care of her as best I can," Harry said.

"Yeah. I know." Ron fidgeted and Harry took that as a cue that he could take a bite of the sandwich and ease his growling stomach. Ron watched him chew and swallow before clearing his throat. "What's this going to mean for you and Neville?"

Harry let out an exasperated sigh. "I swear, Neville's the first thing people keep bringing up after they're done telling me what an idiot I am." Suddenly no longer hungry, he dropped the sandwich back to the plate. "It doesn't mean anything for me and him. We're not together anymore. We've moved on." Somehow he didn't feel right lying to Ron. "All right, _he's_ moved on. I'm..."

"You've hardly budged," Ron supplied. "Every time you think of him it still hurts. And it's not getting any easier no matter how much time goes by. Right?"

Harry shot him a suspicious look. "And how would you know about that?"

Ron shrugged. "I felt the same way when Hermione and I split up that one time. Remember? I moped for a bloody year before you convinced me to crawl back to her, begging."

"That was different," Harry said. "She hadn't stopped loving you, either, she was miserable too. I knew that if one or the other of you swallowed your pride and asked for another chance..."

Ron leaned forward. "Every time Neville comes round for dinner, or writes, he asks after you," he confided in a low voice. "Asks how you're doing. Whether you're okay. If you're seeing anyone." He smiled conspiratorially. "That doesn't strike me as someone who's moved on."

Harry's heart gave a little leap in his chest, but he shook his head. "Don't set me up with false hopes, Ron. Even if what you're saying is true, it doesn't take into account this latest development—and I get the feeling Neville won't be nearly as excited about my having a son as I am."

"There is that," Ron agreed reluctantly. He gestured at the sandwich. "If you don't eat that, Mum's going to come up and force-feed you." Harry obligingly picked up the sandwich and took another bite, though it didn't taste nearly as good as it had before Ron had brought up Neville.

"Are you?" Ron asked suddenly. Harry swallowed.

"Am I what?"

"Excited."

"Once I get past the stark terror, yeah," Harry admitted. He stared at his sandwich. "I never thought I'd have a kid. I still feel like _I'm_ a kid. When am I supposed to start feeling like an adult?"

"I'll let you know when it happens to me," Ron said wryly.

* * *

Evening had fallen by the time Harry timidly descended from the bedroom. The entire family was gathered in the living room, taking up every available seating arrangement, chatting animatedly—it would appear that Mrs. Weasley had finally given up the Christmas Eve tradition of stupefying everyone gathered with the warbling tortures of Celestina Warbeck. Teddy and Victoire were sprawled on the hearth in front of the roaring fire, their faces pink from the heat as they roasted marshmallows on pokers in the flames.

"A man after my own heart," Harry said as he picked his way across the living room to perch on the arm of a sofa. "They're only good when you burn them."

Teddy twisted around and gave Harry a gap-toothed grin.

"Nuh uh," Victoire said, carefully turning her poker. "You've gotta get them nice and brown and then you take off the outside and eat it and then roast the inside."

"That takes forever," Teddy protested.

"Better than tasting like soot," Victoire returned.

Harry felt a small thrill, like a static shock, as it occurred to him that within a few years, it might be his son roasting marshmallows on the hearth on Christmas Eve. His eyes sought out Ginny on the sofa across from him, who was also watching the children on the hearth. She seemed to feel his gaze, because she looked up and smiled at him. It would appear that she was thinking the same thing.

"So what are you going to name him?" Audrey asked, looking from Ginny to Harry, drawing him into the conversation. The rest of the chatter around the room grew silent; Ron and Mrs. Weasley may have reconciled the situation, but the rest of the family was apparently still wary of anything having to do with it.

"We...haven't actually talked about it yet," Harry said uncomfortably. He looked to Ginny.

"I'd like to name him after his father," Ginny said offhandedly, though she glanced at Harry as though for approval.

"What? No, please don't saddle him with Harry," Harry said with some alarm. "One of the things I'd want to go back and ask my mum would be why the blazes she inflicted that name on me." Next to him on the couch, George snorted into his mug of cider. Ginny looked somewhat dismayed. Obviously he'd just spoiled some plans of hers. "We'll talk about it," he promised her. "We've got, what, six months to figure out what to call him?"

A bell sounded from the kitchen and Hermione hopped to her feet. "That'll be the ham," she said somewhat breathlessly. "And that means dinner is done."

"Let me help you get it all to the table, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, also standing.

In short order, everyone was crammed around the kitchen table, with barely enough room to navigate a knife and fork. Conversation was once again flying warmly about the family, though Harry felt largely ignored. That suited him fine. He was not in a particularly talkative mood; his tendency toward introspection today had not worn down even after long hours of staring at the wallpaper in his room. The ham was excellent, and he told Hermione so; she was sitting at his right when she was not bobbing out of her chair to do some other kitchen task. She had been the driving force behind the Christmas Eve dinners for four years running now, but she had outdone herself this year. Ron had confided that her culinary aptitude had arisen from her close work with house-elves that year as a part of her position at the Ministry. "Don't know what they've been teaching her," he'd said earlier that day, "But if she keeps cooking like this I'll have to have my robes let out."

Harry let his mind wander from the conversations around him, and didn't speak another word through the rest of the meal, not even the pudding that Fleur had crafted. No one seemed to particularly notice when he excused himself from the table, and only Ginny and Mrs. Weasley seemed to take note of him putting on his scarf and gloves and wool overcoat and slipping out the front door.

The sky had cleared during the day, and the snow that had been blank white before now glinted silver in the moonlight. The stars were bright and crisp in the cold air. Harry walked for a minute or two, just to get some distance, and then simply stood, watching his breath mist and then disappear.

He didn't know how long he had stood there—not long, his nose wasn't cold yet—before he heard footsteps in the snow behind him. He turned, and was surprised to see Mr. Weasley walking toward him. A flutter of apprehension rose in his middle.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said in greeting. Harry nodded. Mr. Weasley looked somewhat uncomfortable—not from the cold, but as though he wasn't sure how to say something. He reached into his pocket, drew out something very small. "When I first learned that Molly was going to have Bill..." he smiled, ran his hand through his hair. "Ginny hit the nail on the head last night. I was sixteen, she fifteen, neither of us prepared in the least bit, but the worst part was telling her parents."

Harry coughed. "I can relate."

"I know you can. That's why I was so glad to receive from her father the same thing I'm going to give to you." Mr. Weasley pressed a small silver disk into Harry's gloved palm. Harry stared at it, bemused. It looked more like an old bus token than anything else, but it was blank on one side, while the other was intricately engraved with _Ginevra Molly Weasley_ and what appeared to be a coat of arms, under which was inscribed _11 August 1981_. "It's a tradition, particularly among pureblood families, to have a coin engraved for each child on the day of their birth," Mr. Weasley explained. "The other side is reserved for the birth of their firstborn—the heir, as it were." He cleared his throat. "Your father was from pureblood stock—I imagine you found a coin much like this one in your vault at Gringotts, among your parents' possessions." Harry nodded numbly. "In a perfect world, your parents would have given that coin to Ginny tonight, or last night, to exchange with you when your son is born." Mr. Weasley offered a sad smile. Harry wasn't sure how to respond. "It means that the parents of the witch and wizard in question accept and celebrate the new child, and approve the child to be one of the family heirs," Mr. Weasley clarified. "It was more important to have these coins when bloodlines and inheritance were important to prove—it's now more of a sentimental thing than anything—but..." he seemed to run out of words, and rubbed his hands together against the cold.

Harry found his voice. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley," he said, but it sounded vastly inadequate. He closed his hand over the coin, which somehow felt much heavier now that he knew its significance. He looked up into Mr. Weasley's serious face. "It...means a great deal to me. Your approval." Mr. Weasley smiled, and reached out to grip Harry's shoulder.

"You'll make a good father, Harry. My grandson is very lucky indeed."

* * *

The next morning, Harry stumbled downstairs rubbing his eyes blearily. As was perhaps dictated by law, Teddy and Fleur had roused the entire household as soon as the sky had begun to show hints of dawn, beginning with their guardians and by extension everyone else as their shrill young voices explained very loudly and earnestly why everyone must wake up right now. Harry remembered Dudley acting the same way, but he had never shared in the excitement—the first time he'd ever received a present on Christmas morning had been his first year at Hogwarts.

The pile by the fireplace this year was quite large—everyone had at least one parcel that had been delivered by the owls overnight. Harry had never figured out how owls knew to delay delivery of gifts until the night before Christmas, or the birthday of the recipient. He yawned, not willing to spare the brain cycles at the moment to ponder it, and flopped into an armchair. The rest of the family filled in the spaces around him, and Mrs. Weasley began passing around mugs of coffee, looking more tired than usual herself.

The adults let Teddy and Victoire rip open their lion's share of parcels first, still waking up but amused at the children's reactions to their bounty. It appeared that the winners were Victoire's plush toy pony that whickered and pawed the ground realistically, a gift from Ginny, and Teddy's child-sized Quaffle that would return when thrown. Harry firmly believed in starting children early for a lifetime appreciation of Quidditch.

The smaller parcels for adults were then passed around and opened in turns; Percy was pleased with his new raven's quill that produced its own azure blue ink, a gift Harry had labored over for some time; Charlie hooted with laughter at the false Snitch that bared sharp teeth and growled, courtesy of George; Mrs. Weasley admired Fleur's embroidery handiwork on a pair of dainty linen handkerchiefs. The traditional Weasley jumpers were no surprise, of course; while the Weasleys had a great deal more money now that they no longer had to scrape together several Hogwarts tuitions, by this point the Weasley jumper was a staple.

Ginny paused in unwrapping a small parcel, looking piercingly at Harry, who was watching her closely. "Harry, I've already told you no."

Harry cleared his throat, aware that everyone had quieted down and was now watching their exchange with interest. "I know. But I'd like you to have it anyway." He reached over and opened the box for her. Here in the bright light, the ring was absolutely dazzling, as though determined to make up for twenty-three years of dark storage in its wooden box.

"I—Harry, I couldn't. Not your mother's ring. Save that for someone else."

"There's only going to be one mother of my first son," Harry said firmly, with a gentle note. "And whether you like it or not, you and I are devoted to one another on some level, if we're raising this child together. There isn't any escaping that. You may not ever be my wife, but you'll always be my son's mother." He took her hand, slid the ring onto the fourth finger. "On your right hand, if it makes you feel any better," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "Save the left for the bloke you do marry someday."

Ginny's eyes shone with tears, and from the corner of his eye Harry could see that her expression was mirrored among most of the women surrounding them. "You are so noble it makes me ill," she said, but there wasn't any real force behind the words, and she did not remove the ring when Harry let go of her hand.

Harry surreptitiously surveyed the room and was pleased to discover that, for the first time since Friday's dinner, the general consensus seemed to be that of approval and acceptance. Hermione smiled warmly at him when his gaze met hers, and it was then that he finally knew that his transgression had been forgiven, and the celebration could begin.

* * *

That afternoon, Harry had just pulled a cracker with Teddy and was coughing in the star-spangled smoke it had produced when a knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Weasley looked up from studying her new leather gloves and stared at the door in confusion.

"But...we're all here already," she said in befuddlement as she put the gloves aside and made her way to the door.

Harry's mouth went dry as his eyes automatically went to Ron and Hermione, who met his gaze with wide eyes themselves. No. They weren't all there. Someone was missing, and if he was on the other side of that door...

Harry hastily stood, brushing confetti off his lap as he made his way to the stairs, but he froze in the middle of his escape as Mrs. Weasley squealed in delight.

"Neville! Oh, what a brilliant surprise! Happy Christmas!"


	6. Chapter 6

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Weasley," came the familiar voice that turned Harry's insides to stone, while at the same time made his muscles melt to jelly. He could do nothing but stand and quiver slightly.

 _I am not ready for this_ , he thought to himself, and the prospect of Neville turning and seeing him made his legs give a little jerk so that he was slightly closer to the stairs than he was before, though it was far from stealthy. He'd take what he could get. Anything to get out of this room.

His attention, however, was so firmly set upon memorizing every detail of Neville's face and body and posture and voice, even that little eyebrow quirk he always got when he felt awkward, the tendency to lick his lips just slightly more than they needed...Harry felt himself rooted thoroughly to the spot, his hand on the banister of the stairs, and he hoped against hope that Neville would look over and notice him, while at the same time wishing fervently that he would be able to escape unseen. For he had not gone to get that haircut and thus looked disheveled and wild, as though he'd only thought about using a comb, nor had he shaved since Friday morning, and he was in a tee shirt and pajama bottoms besides, whereas Neville looked as neat and trim as though he expected to be called to teach a class at a moment's notice—under his overcoat the collar of his robes was pressed and sharp, his hair combed, and if his cheeks had not seen a razor that morning then Harry would eat his broomstick.

Neville had been welcomed into the living room now, shaking hands and exchanging hugs. Hermione looked with empathy over Neville's shoulder at Harry, but perhaps Neville had sensed where she was looking, because he pulled away from the hug and—

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Harry sucked in a gasp as Neville began to turn. His heart suddenly seemed several sizes too large for his chest and was thumping like a trapped animal against his ribs. He tried to swallow, but there was no moisture left and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Harry."

Oh tiny gods, it felt good to hear him say his name. Harry continued to stare, not even daring to blink. This was not how he thought their first meeting would go. He was supposed to be cool and confident, showing off how well he was getting on, not frozen like a rabbit cornered by a wolf.

Somehow Neville was right in front of him now. When had he moved? Harry nearly shivered as he caught a whiff of Neville's aftershave and it brought back memories of mornings spent getting ready together, of that slightly spicy tinge to the embraces at the end of a long day, and his knees nearly let go right there and deposited him on the floor. Harry tightened his grip on the banister and tried to channel the reassurance of being solid from it. He had nearly regained his voice when Neville opened his arms and stepped forward and Harry's eyes bulged and breath caught, but his body knew what to do and he found himself raising his own arms and returning the hug.

It was a friendly hug, nothing more, lasting only a second before Neville began to withdraw. Harry let him, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to hold on, don't let him go, don't let him leave again. In front of him once again, Neville looked into Harry's eyes.

Harry nodded once, briskly. "Good to see you," he forced out, and was proud that it didn't come out as a squawk or warble.

"It is," Neville said, and he sounded so much more confident than Harry felt that he wanted to dissolve into a little puddle. "It's been a while."

Harry resisted the urge to tell Neville exactly how many days it had been. "I suppose it has," he said instead. "I've been...it's been busy at work. Makes time go by faster." The more he talked, the easier it became.

"Same here. I didn't realize how much work being a teacher is. Sometimes I miss dodging curses."

"Neville, let me take your coat and you can stay awhile," Mrs. Weasley said, bustling up to them. Harry jumped—he had been paying absolutely no attention to what had been happening around him, and her approach had come from nowhere. She glanced between the two of them as though suddenly realizing what she'd interrupted. Neville slipped out of his coat and Harry used the opportunity to bolt like a rabbit up the stairs and slip into his room, hastily closing the door behind him.

He'd really much preferred the feeling of the ground dropping from beneath his feet as Ginny had revealed her pregnancy to her family. He leaned against the door, face burning, hot tears pricking his eyes that he adamantly refused to let fall. He wasn't ready for this. He had to get out of here.

* * *

"Did I say something?" Neville asked as he watched Harry take the stairs two at a time and disappear around the corner of the floor above.

"Yes," Ron said. "Though you probably could have recited the Floo directory to him and he'd have reacted the same."

Neville gave his heart a stern command to stop beating so fast as he turned to face Ron. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ron lowered his voice as he stepped closer. "He won't appreciate me telling you this, mate, but really, it's for his own good." He looked around to see if anyone was listening in. "He's in a bad way. Ginny told me she thinks he's not sleeping well, definitely not taking care of himself right. I had no idea, as I haven't seen him outside work and he always seems so together there, but..." Ron shrugged. "And he said it blunt as you please yesterday, he's not over you."

"Oh," Neville said, his mind racing to figure out what to do with this information. "Isn't he...I mean, is he seeing Ginny, then?"

Ron bit his lip. "Well, er...maybe Harry should explain that bit. Or Ginny."

"Maybe I should explain what?" Ginny asked as she emerged from the kitchen and stepped up next to them. Ron gaped.

"How did you hear that all the way over here?"

"I was waiting for my cue. Neville, you should really come with me."

"Actually, I..." Neville had thought that maybe two months of distance and perspective might make him more kindly disposed toward Ron's younger sister, for whom he'd always before had a soft spot, but apparently he was wrong. Seeing her and knowing that she'd had his arms around Harry, that she'd stolen him away...

"I know," Ginny said, as though she could read his thoughts. Maybe she could; he'd never been good at keeping his face smooth—his eyebrows always seemed to move independently of the facial expressions he had control over. "I'm about to make it a lot worse. Come with me." And to make it clear she would brook no argument, she grabbed him by the forearm and began leading him upstairs.

"Cryptic much?" Neville said a bit touchily as he followed. She didn't respond, simply steered him up two flights of stairs into what had once been her room. There were three beds in it now, and not much room to move. She practically tossed him onto one of the beds and he crossed his arms and looked at her, trying not to glare or pout.

"I'm pregnant and Harry's the father," she said bluntly, crossing her own arms.

She was continuing to speak, but Neville didn't hear it. He felt as though his blood had been replaced with ice water. Surely she was joking. This sort of thing only happened in dramas. He stared at her, unhearing, until she snapped her fingers in his face.

"Are you even listening to me?" she demanded.

"No," Neville said honestly. His eyebrows knit together and he looked down at his hands, surprised to find they were shaking. With what? Anger? Anxiety? He couldn't figure out what it was he was feeling, and that was disconcerting. If he didn't know how he was feeling, how was he supposed to react?

"I said, I never meant to come between you two. And if you want me to disappear somewhere..."

Neville's head snapped up. "What?"

Ginny swallowed hard. "Harry's determined to be a good father. But you and I both know he's always determined to do the right thing, even if it kills him. Neville, he's actually pining. He's sleeping on his bloody sofa because he doesn't want to go back to the bed you used to share. I don't know what he's eating, that kitchen hasn't seen use since autumn. Ron says he's spending all hours at work, he's there when Ron gets there and leaves long after Ron's left."

Neville bit his lip. "He's hurting. It wasn't the best breakup in the world."

"It's more than that. You...you didn't see him after he told you what we'd done." Ginny knelt down so that Neville could see her face, even when trying to study his shoes. Neville closed his eyes; he didn't want to see her. "It was the end of the world for him. He couldn't do anything for days. It destroyed him."

"And I bet you were there to dry his tears," Neville said bitterly, then bit down on his tongue. Letting his anger get the best of him was not going to help.

"No, actually," Ginny said coolly. "That would have been the worst thing I could have done." She put her hand on his arm, and he opened his eyes. "Do you remember a couple years back, when I said I didn't want to be your rival?"

"Yes," Neville said grudgingly, leaving out "liar" though he desperately wanted to say it.

"I still don't. And really, I'm not. Even with all this...he's only got room for you in his heart." She looked into his eyes intently. "If you ask me to, I'll go."

Neville saw something glinting on her right hand, then, and his breath caught. "That's his mother's ring."

Ginny's eyes flicked to her finger. "Yes. That would be another of his terrible judgment calls. He proposed with it. I refused," she added quickly when Neville opened his mouth angrily. "I don't want him, Neville. I honestly and truly don't. We're tied together by this baby, now, but it's out of duty to him, not because we want to have a life together. I promise you that."

"Then why are you still wearing the ring?"

Ginny grimaced in an expression of uncertainty. "I don't know," she said finally. "Maybe because it means so much to him that I have it. He gave it to me again this morning, telling me that I'll never be his wife, but I'll always be the mother of his son. You know him, Neville. He's all about big dramatic gestures and wearing his heart on his sleeve. He doesn't really know how to be subtle."

Neville sighed. Yes, he knew that very well. That was part of their problems in the first place, that he was always in a state of high drama, elevating their simple lovers' spats into insurmountable fights.

"I'm going to ask you something," Ginny said, breaking the silence. "And I want you to answer me truthfully. It's very, very important, do you understand?" Neville nodded, his face smoothing somewhat. Introspection he could do. Ginny took a deep breath and once again made that intense eye contact. "Do you still love him?"

Neville licked his lips. "Yes."

Ginny nodded as though expecting the answer. "Do you still want him?"

Neville didn't respond. How was he supposed to answer that? He'd been trying to figure it out himself for the past two months. He'd felt like he was smothering a little bit every day when he woke up without Harry next to him, every night felt like he'd completed one more braid in some unseen hangman's noose as he fell asleep alone. He'd almost lost control of himself when he'd embraced Harry not five minutes ago, almost hadn't let go, almost crushed Harry to him and then kissed him for all he was worth. It had taken every ounce of self-control he could muster to step away.

"Neville. Do you want him back?" Neville furrowed his brow, fighting the two warring answers inside his head, feeling his chest start to rise and fall faster, as though he were running a race. He didn't know the answer. They'd argued so much, fenced with petty little jabs that cut deeply, starting with the house they'd painstakingly made their own over the years and ending with the stupidest accusations about hours at work and laundry undone. Laundry, of all things. Neville had gotten home and tripped over a laundry basket in the hallway and realized, to his dismay, that being with Harry didn't feel good anymore. He'd sat and thought about it and had come to the very painful conclusion that the relationship had played out. They'd been up all night arguing it, but in the end, Harry had left and Neville had begun to pack...and had had the epiphany that love didn't always feel good. He'd sent the owl begging Harry to come back, had stayed up all night jumping at every noise, and then he had returned, with that damning news that flayed Neville bare, exposed his raw emotions like he almost never did and...

"Answer me!" Ginny demanded.

" _Yes!_ Yes, god damn it, yes! I want him back! More than anything," he said, his voice cracking on the last word. He lowered his face into his hands. "I just don't know how anymore...so much has happened, and...this, now..."

Ginny nodded grimly and stood up. "I'll get out of your way, then."

Neville's hands dropped abruptly. "What does that mean?"

Ginny took a trembling breath. "I've come between you and as long as I'm around, and our son's around...I'll always be between you. It's best if I just...disappear for a while. I'm good at it, it's what I do."

"You'd deprive him of his son?" Neville asked in disbelief. Ginny winced, then nodded.

"For his sake. And yours."

"No," Neville said firmly, straightening from his hunched-over posture on the bed. "I refuse to be party to this. You talk about his big dramatic moves, what the hell do you think this is?" Ginny looked stricken, but Neville continued, relentlessly. "You're putting me in the most unfair position I've ever been in in my life, and considering my life, that's saying something. You want me to make the decision that will take his son away from him? It's one thing for you to make that decision and disappear, but no—you want me to make it for you, so you can have an excuse, so that it's not your responsibility. That's not only unfair, it's childish. No. If that's what you want to do, then do it, but don't you dare make me out to be the reason you do it. I won't play that game." He stood up. "I'm leaving now. Happy Christmas."

"Please don't go," Ginny said, stepping between him and the door, trying to sound collected but a waver to her vowels belying her true emotions. She used the end of her sleeve to wipe a tear away from her eye. Neville paused; this was the closest he'd ever seen her come to dissembling. "You're right, I'm being stupid. Just like he does. Fire, ready, aim, it's what I've always done, it's what he's always done, that's why we've ruined what you two had—I'm trying to fix things, can't you see? He insists that what happened was his fault but it's not, it's mine, and I'm trying to make it better but I just keep making it worse and...Neville, I don't know what to _do_!"

And for the first time in the decade and more he'd known her, she burst into tears.

Anger slowly gave way to astonishment. Ginny had turned away from him, was leaning her forehead against the door, her hands covering her nose and mouth, and she was letting out great coughing sobs the like of which he'd never known she would ever allow.

He sighed. He wanted to despise her right now, wanted to have somewhere to aim his frustration and anger that wasn't himself, but all he could see in front of him was the girl who had wanted so badly to prove herself that she had forged a hard armored shell to keep out the bad and keep in the invulnerabilities—and that shell had finally cracked.

Harry always did the right thing. It was one thing that he and Neville had always had in common. And so, despite his deep-seated grudge, despite knowing that this woman was carrying the child of the man he loved to distraction, despite knowing that child meant he would never again have the man he loved to himself, Neville gently turned Ginny around and brought her to him in the hug it seemed she so desperately needed.

"You're not going to run away," he said softly, patting her back as it shook with sobs. "You're going to stay right here where you belong, and you and Harry are going to have an absolutely brilliant son." Something dawned on him then, something so profound that it seized every muscle and made him tense. Ginny must have felt it, because there was a slight catch to her indrawn breath. "And..." he said, working it out into words, even though the notion was so simple that it didn't need words, "if I can't get past that...then I'm the one who doesn't deserve him."

The crying girl in his arms suddenly became peripheral to this new train of thought. It was so blindingly simple. He loved Harry dearly, deeply, madly, and the thought of withdrawing that love from him because of one bad decision suddenly seemed petty and ridiculous. Withdrawing that love because of the consequences of that bad decision was not so much, but...

He'd come across a quote once in his reading that had stuck with him: _"Love is that state in which the happiness of another is essential to your own."_ The pregnancy was a consequence to a bad decision, but an oddly happy consequence—Neville knew Harry well enough to know that fatherhood would agree well with him. If Neville could not love Harry despite his devotion to a son, something that would make Harry irrevocably happy, then he couldn't rightfully call it love, because love was not selfish in that way.

Ginny had been talking to him for several seconds, and he wrenched his attention back to her.

"...so sorry, Neville, I—"

"You can stop being sorry. In fact, you've helped me figure something out, or start to, anyway," Neville said, squeezing her once and then letting her go. He stepped around her. "Now. Which room has Harry closeted himself in?"

* * *

Harry was pacing in the small space between the beds, running his hand through his hair to keep his fringe from falling into his eyes. He could hear Neville's tenor somewhere upstairs—were they giving him a room? He felt like he was falling apart like a clockwork toy that had lost all the screws.

He didn't know what to do. He could command a squadron of hit-wizards, make split-second life-or-death decisions on a battlefield, but he didn't know what to do now. His bag was packed, he'd even considered Disapparating right there in the Burrow, rude as that was, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He needed air, that's what he needed. He needed to get outside where there was more room to pace. He could pace all up and down Ottery St. Catchpole if he needed.

Having made a decision, even if that decision was to delay making a decision, he opened the door and nearly ran headlong into Neville, his left hand raised as though preparing to knock.

He stared and Neville stared right back. Harry could feel the blood draining from his face, had to remind himself to breathe. He knew he looked a mess, was painfully aware at how unkempt he'd made his hair by combing his fingers through it, knew his tee shirt was rumpled and sticking to his back from the cold sweat he'd broken.

"Hi," Neville finally said. He'd lowered his left hand and now simply stood framed by the doorway. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed as he seemed to take in the way Harry was practically twitching; Harry clasped his hands together behind his back to stop them shaking. "God, Harry. Calm down. Please." He placed one hand on each of Harry's shoulders as though to steady him and Harry flinched at the touch as though it burned.

"I can't," Harry was dismayed to find himself saying, but it was like a leak had sprung in a dam and suddenly he couldn't stop talking. "Do you have any idea what this feels like? I've spent two months climbing the walls, and it's like nights never fucking end, and then you just show up and—" He stopped talking abruptly as Neville drew him into a tight embrace, holding his head against his shoulder. Every tense muscle in Harry's body suddenly relaxed and he felt like he was going to fall over, and would have, had Neville not been holding him up.

"Harry, I'm sorry," Neville said simply, still cradling Harry to him. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get my head on right. And I'm sorry this situation makes things harder. I should never have let things get this far."

"Ginny's pregnant," Harry said uselessly.

"I know. She told me."

"It's mine."

"She told me that, too. She also tried to run away so that you and I could be together."

"She...wait, she _what_?" Harry wrenched himself out of Neville's arms, looked at him sharply.

"Relax. I headed that nonsense off. God, she's just like you, ready to dive before you even make sure there's a pool there." Neville smiled that crooked little smile of his and Harry shakily sat down on the end of the bed. The smile melted away as Neville sighed. "I'm not going to lie," he said seriously, leaning back against the wall. "I'm...I don't know that I'm strong enough to handle this. I don't know that I'm...selfless enough."

Harry's heart was beating so hard that the sound pounded in his ears.

"Do you love her?" Neville asked suddenly. Harry jerked in surprise at the question.

"I...yes. But not like you think," he said, struggling to make his thoughts make sense. He closed his eyes, trying to remove the distraction of the sight of Neville, but he could swear he felt Neville standing there, could smell him, and it was driving him mad. "She's...it's more than just friendship, but I can't...couldn't ever be with her. Couldn't imagine going home to her at the end of the day, sharing a life with her. Not like I always imagined with you." With his eyes closed, it was a little easier to say what was in his mind, could pretend he was saying it to someone else. "We're having a son. It...makes things complicated. I don't know how to handle it."

"I don't either," Neville said. All illusion that someone else was standing there fled at the sound of his voice, and Harry's eyes popped back open. He could quite literally feel his heart ache at the sight of him. "All I know is...Harry, I want to try. I think. I..." he ran his hand through his hair, making half of it stand up on end. "I don't know if I _can_ handle it. And it's going to suck for a while." He smiled in what was almost a grimace, and Harry found that he was barely breathing. He took a deep breath, trying to breathe in slowly to make it less of a gasp.

"What are you saying?" he asked in a shaking voice. "Use small words. I'm a bit wound up right now."

Neville laughed, and it had a very slight hysterical edge to it. "Harry, life is hell without you. For all your outbursts and overreactions...I'm going mad, knowing I don't have you. But..." he hesitated. Harry held his breath. "I really need some time," Neville finally said. "I need to figure out if I can be the man you need me to be, someone who can be okay with watching you raise a child with someone else. I don't know if I can be that for you." He knelt down then, and Harry let out his held breath in what was almost a shaky sigh of longing as Neville gazed deeply into his eyes. "I know this two months has lasted forever. Believe me, I know. But if you can give me some more time, so I can think, I promise...I'll try to figure out a way for us to give things another go."

Harry swallowed and was surprised to find a small smile creep to his lips. "You always ask for the weirdest things for Christmas."

Neville snorted and wrapped his arms around Harry. Harry closed his eyes and reveled in the warmth of it, let the spark of happiness in his breast fill him to bursting. He didn't have Neville back—not yet—but this closeness, this confession...it would do.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry wasn't really paying attention when the memo landed on his desk midday at the end of January. He was paying far more attention to another bit of parchment that he was holding, which had the Hogwarts crest across the top and showcased Neville's neat, precise hand in dark green ink.

 _Harry,_

 _Sorry to send this to your work, but I figured I should give you enough fair warning before showing up on your doorstep._

 _I've thought things through. I think we can make everything work. I need to talk to you first, though, and to be frank, if it's not tonight I may go mad._

 _Let me know when you'll be home. I've sent a letter to Ginny as well, as she's rather involved in this insane three-way family we're going to try to cobble together._

 _Neville_

He reread the letter with a smile growing upon his face, and was about to pick up his quill to pen a reply when a shadow fell over his desk. He looked up.

"Ginny? What are you doing here?" He noticed the memo fluttering over his desk and opened it.

 _Ginny Weasley here to see you. Have sent her down._

Oh. Well then.

"Harry, I've just had a client come in from Bath. She's terribly distraught—the ghosts there are disappearing one by one, and she knows where the last one used to haunt."

All thoughts of Neville immediately fled from Harry's head. "Where?" he demanded, grabbing his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment. "Jackson, Perry, get the squad assembled—we're heading out as soon as I give the word!" he yelled across the room. Two junior Aurors who had been sipping coffee and chatting amiably jumped, then nodded and bustled out.

"In the Abbey," Ginny said as soon as Harry's intent gaze turned back to her. "She thinks that the person doing it is hiding in the basement there."

"How long ago did the last ghost disappear?" Harry asked, clearing scraps of parchment and a broken quill off the map on one side of his desk.

"This morning."

"Ginny, you're a treasure. Can you get the ghost here in the next few minutes? Good. Tell Neville tonight might not work. Tell him why. Jackson," he said to the Auror who had just returned with four hit-wizards trailing behind him. Ginny had slipped out of the Auror offices, presumably back to the entrance hall to use the fireplaces. "Bath Abbey. Get to the north side and lay low, but try to figure out how we can get in with minimum disturbance. Do not move in until I get there. Muggle uniform until I say otherwise."

"Yes sir," Jackson said, and the hit-wizards with him nodded and wordlessly removed their robes, under which they wore Muggle police uniforms as general practice. Jackson turned his robe inside out to become a very convincing Muggle trench coat. Muggles never paid enough attention to notice that instead of firearms in their holsters, they had wands; if they did notice, they wouldn't remember for long.

"I'll arrive with Perry on the east side of the Abbey. Our quarry is in the basement, and should be considered armed until further notice. Stop at the Armory on the way. I want everyone to have a Remote Shield charm on. Lindsay casts the best ones, get them from him. Kelly, I want you in a Disillusionment charm as well, and hang back once we go in to report to headquarters if something goes wrong. Jackson, cast an Anti-Apparation jinx as soon as you arrive. You're point until I get there." Jackson bobbed a nod and he led his half of the squad out of the offices to the Armory.

A silver wispy shape appeared suddenly next to his desk. Harry bowed to it. "Good afternoon. My name is Harry Potter. I'm an Auror for the Ministry of Magic. I'm very interested in some information you may have about suspicious activities at Bath Abbey."

"Melinda Miller," a wavering voice shimmered from the formless silver mist. "I'm—I'm terribly sorry about my appearance, Mr. Potter, but I—"

"I understand you are upset. Please think nothing of it." He would have invited her to take a seat, but he'd learned the hard way that it was considered somewhat tactless to encourage a ghost to do things that required a corporeal body. "Ms. Miller, you sought out assistance from an associate of mine, Ginny Weasley, today. Can you tell me why?"

"It was Eduardo," the ghost said, and she sounded to be crying now. "He was a ghost at Bath Abbey, where he was a monk two hundred years ago...he was always so pleasant, always made sure all the candles stayed lit, even the ones in the basement, even though Muggles can't get down there..."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know! I went to ask him if he knew where Matilda went—she haunts the Little Theatre in Bath, or she did, I haven't been able to find her either—anyway, I went down to the basement, where Eduardo goes when Communion is being held, so as not to disturb the Muggles—and he wasn't there, and the candles were out—but there was a wizard there, and he saw me and p-pointed his wand at me and so I—I scampered." The ghost wavered slightly.

"When did you last see him? Eduardo, that is."

"Just yesterday. And the wizard...he definitely wasn't there then." The ghost flashed bright silver for a moment. "Is this the man who has been...been killing ghosts all round Britain?"

"I think so," Harry said grimly. "Ms. Miller, we're going to go try to apprehend him. How long ago did this all happen?"

"An hour ago? Maybe two? It's...hard to keep track of time when you haven't got a body."

Harry winced at his faux pas. "Do you know the best way to get into the basement?"

The ghost made a bobbing motion that could have been a nod. "The third candelabra from the back wall of the Abbey, on the right side," she said. "Tap it thrice with a wand, wait two beats, then tap twice more. It will open up to a stairway. I don't think there are any other ways in, but..."

Harry nodded. "Ms. Miller, you have been most helpful. Before you leave, you will want to check in with the Office of Departed Magical Persons, two floors down. They'll need to confirm that I've spoken with you today, and they'll help you from there. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"If...if you could somehow help Eduardo..."

Harry shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid if the necromancer's already gotten to him, there's nothing I can do. But I will make sure he can't do this to anyone else."

The ghost gave a little sob and winked out. Harry stood and donned his own robe, outside-in, and strode to where Perry stood against the wall with his five hit-wizards in Muggle dress.

"Bath Abbey, on the east side," he said shortly, drawing his wand from his holster. "We'll rendezvous with Jackson and secure the building before moving in. It sounds as though there's only one way into the basement, and that's where we need to go. To the Armory first."

They all walked briskly down the hall, Harry in the lead, turning his head over his shoulder so he could brief his squad as they went. The other squad consisted of hit-wizards he had been assigned; for this, his first command, he had hand-picked these wizards (and one witch) himself. It was these wizards (and one witch) that he trusted to back him up in any situation. Indeed, some had saved his life more than once.

"The last disappearance was this morning. We have a confirmed sighting from a reliable ghost witness of a wizard in the basement of the Abbey approximately one hour ago. The basement is the haunt of the ghost that disappeared this morning. Our quarry is armed. There is one entrance into the basement, reportedly accessible by wand only."

"Potter!" Jameson called as they passed by his office door. "Perry said you had something."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, pausing for a brief moment. "Hot lead. Bath Abbey. I'll send Kelly straight away to let you know what happens."

"Good work, Potter. Make it count."

"I will, sir."

Aaron Lindsay popped up from his chair as Harry led his squad into the tiled room that had been dubbed "the Armory." "Potter. Same as the rest, then?"

"Right," Harry said with a brisk nod. "And if you've got anything that will repel malicious ghosts, that wouldn't go amiss either—I don't know how accomplished this bloke is but I don't want him catching us by surprise with an army of enthralled spirits."

"You got it. You want a haircut along with it?"

Harry managed to grin through the mental preparations he was making. "Maybe another time."

Lindsay gripped and pounded him on the back before assuming his no-nonsense expression and raising his wand. In less time than it took to walk there, he'd cast the rather complex remote shield charm, which would offer protection so long as the caster was alive and focusing on maintaining the charm—which was why Lindsay stayed here in the Armory rather than going out in the field. The squad would still have to use their own shield charms, but they'd be much less likely to be mortally wounded by a surprise attack if they were somehow rendered wandless.

"You good splitting that thirteen ways?" Harry asked seriously. Lindsay nodded curtly.

"I've done twenty before. Just don't take a week. Go get 'em."

"All right," Harry said, turning to face his squad. "Apparate on my mark. Three...two...one."

* * *

"Sir," Jackson said, approaching Harry as he gathered his bearings. "We've got the cooperation of the Muggles in charge at the Abbey—I told them we were searching for a fugitive and he may be hiding in the Abbey. They've closed tours for the day. We're free to enter, but we'll likely want to keep magic to a minimum until we're inside."

"Good work," Harry said absently as he scanned the area. The street in front of the entrance to the Abbey was deserted, which was odd—the Abbey was a major Muggle tourist attraction.

"Muggle repelling charm," Jackson confirmed. Harry nodded, then motioned his two squads close.

"We're going to go in. I'll open the passageway to the basement. Depending on how wide the passageway is, you'll follow two abreast—Perry, I want you at my right hand. No light, and keep your footfalls quiet. We want to surprise him if at all possible, if opening the passageway doesn't alert him. Stun and debilitate only, at the usual signal. I want a clean operation." He glanced around, saw assent on everyone's faces. "Wands out. Let's move."

His footsteps, even when consciously muffled, still echoed throughout the giant cathedral. It sounded like rather more than thirteen wizards were striding stealthily through the room along the right wall.

Every sense strained, Harry tapped his wand on the third candelabra three times, counted two beats, then tapped twice more. Rather than folding out in a noisy rumble, the wall before him simply opened, silently. He counted that as a bit of good luck, and hoped that the light filtering into the passageway wouldn't alert the criminal in the basement.

He descended the staircase slowly, placing his feet carefully before putting his weight on them. A ghost wouldn't necessarily notice a booby-trapped or trick step. Behind him, his squad followed silently as shadows. The stairwell began to wind and after the first few turns, dissolved into pitch blackness. Harry began to rethink his decision against light—this was not the first staircase he'd descended in pure darkness, but it was the first one where he was on point—when his next step came up short, signaling the end of the stairs and jolting him badly, alert as he was. Thankfully he didn't make much noise as he recovered, and he very carefully felt along the wall and stepped along it, not lifting his feet more than an inch above the ground to avoid stepping on something noisy. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face, but the room sounded like it was large.

He gave it to the count of fifteen and then, his heart pounding, brandished his wand. _"LUMOS MAXIMA!"_

Bright white light flooded the room; he threw his other arm over one eye to prevent himself from being totally blinded, his movement mirrored by the hit-wizards and junior Aurors. Harry had a brief impression of a thickset man lurching to his feet against the far wall, and then—

" _STUPEFY!" "IMPEDIMENTIA!" "PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" "SILENCIO!"_ and _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_ echoed in thirteen different voices throughout the basement room, which was illuminated even more brightly by the flashes of colored light that accompanied the spells. Two of the spells ricocheted from the opposite wall and Harry ducked one almost lazily as it rebounded at him, dissolving into a shower of sparks on the stone wall behind him. The rest, however, had hit their intended target. A quick scan confirmed that he was the only target in the room, but—

" _Homenum revelio,"_ he said, scanning the room with his wand. The outlines of his squad glowed gold, as well as the prone wizard on the floor. Back by the staircase Kelly's Disillusionment charm shimmered. No other outlines appeared. Satisfied, he lowered his wand.

"Who has his wand?" he demanded as he motioned them all forward.

"I do, sir," one of the hit-wizards in Jackson's squad said, holding it up.

"Jackson, lift the Anti-Apparition jinx. Smythe, Apparate back to the Ministry immediately. Give the wand to Jameson and ask him to prepare a room for questioning. Kelly, go with him."

"Sir," the hit-wizards said in acknowledgment, and turned on the spot with sharp CRACKs.

" _Incarcerus."_ Ropes shot from the end of Harry's wand and wrapped themselves around their prisoner, tightening. Only once the ropes stilled did Harry allow himself to relax slightly.

He knelt down next to the immobilized wizard, was pleased to see that he matched descriptions he had been working from for months. He stood, crossing his arms, reveling in a little bit of triumph.

"Well done, everyone," he said in satisfaction. "Let's get back. Jackson, go play Muggle, let the ones in charge of the building know everything is fine. Avoid memory modification if you can. Everyone else, to the Ministry and prepare for debriefing."

As Apparation cracks echoed about the room, Harry tried to shake off the feeling that this had been far too easy. _It wasn't easy_ , he told himself. _We were just prepared, and had a good tipoff, and so had the upper hand._

 _Whatever you say_ , the obstinate counter-voice said, and Harry did his best to ignore it.

* * *

It was dark and that special piercing kind of cold reserved for the heart of winter when Harry Apparated to the stoop of his house that evening, exhausted but quite pleased with himself. He was turning the doorknob when a hand landed on his shoulder and his overtuned reflexes, still not turned off after the events of the day, slammed into overdrive.

He drove his elbow back, was rewarded with an "Umph!" from whoever was behind him, and pivoted as he drew his wand from its holster and with a _"stupefy"_ already at his lips, aimed...at Neville, doubled over and holding his stomach, gasping.

Harry froze. "Oh god. Neville, are you all right?" He hurried forward to put an arm around his shoulders and help him into the house.

"Bit keen, aren't you?" Neville wheezed as he lowered himself into a chair in the living room.

"I am so sorry," Harry said, mortification threatening to reduce him to giggles. "You should know better than to try and sneak up on an Auror."

"And as an Auror, you should know better than to let your guard down," Neville responded, somewhat breathlessly. "I was standing right across the street, Harry. You didn't see me?"

Harry had, actually, but in the dark had only seen the outline of someone standing under a street lamp. "I wasn't expecting you."

Neville stared blankly. "You weren't expecting me? Did you get my owl?"

"Yeah, but—I told Ginny to tell you I probably couldn't tonight—"

Neville shook his head. "I never got any response from you or Ginny. Where were you?"

"You remember that case I was working on, back before we..." Harry trailed off. Neville nodded. "Well. We got the guy. Today. Confessed under Veritaserum and everything. None of my men were harmed, we've got him behind bars in Azkaban, and I'm apparently going to be on the front page of the Daily Prophet tomorrow giving the press release." He'd not wanted to step forward at the press conference—as head of the Auror department, that was Jameson's privilege—but Jameson had nudged him forward, pressing the prepared statement into Harry's hands.

"You've earned it," Jameson had said seriously, clapping his protégé on the back. And so, to an onslaught of flashbulbs and dancing quills, Harry had stepped forward and accepted the accolades for what was probably the first major thing he'd ever done that was legitimately his own choice and doing.

It had felt good. The low whistle that Neville produced at the news made him feel good, too.

"Did you flash the badge?" Neville asked impishly. "Please tell me you flashed the badge."

"Actually, I didn't get to flash the badge even once," Harry said with mock despair. He smiled, then checked his watch. "It's probably too late for that conversation you wanted," he said apologetically. "And I really don't want to start that conversation by thrashing you."

Neville gave him an odd look that lasted for a split second before he chuckled. "I suppose so," he said. "Normally I'd say to hell with the time, but I've got an eight o'clock double N.E.W.T. class tomorrow morning—well, Sprout technically has the class, but I have to be there. If you're not busy tomorrow...?"

"Definitely," Harry said firmly. He stood along with Neville, went to walk him to the door with a tiny trickle of regret.

Neville paused at the door, then smiled that crooked smile of his. "It's really good to see you, Harry."

"You too," Harry said, and with an answering smile moved to put his arms around the man that he still loved, the man who had come back and would come back tomorrow.

The warmth of the embrace and the contentment that rose in his chest prompted him to lift his head, reach up to grasp the back of Neville's head, and bring Neville's mouth down to meet his. Neville made a small, muffled sound of surprise, but did not pull away, and yielded when Harry parted his lips and lapped at Neville's with his tongue. All at once, the excitement and adrenaline from the day charged through his veins, and it was almost with a growl that Harry pushed Neville against the door, one arm to either side, pressing him there with his body and nipping hungrily at his lower lip. He broke away and almost laughed at Neville's dumbfounded expression, his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly open.

"Stay tonight," Harry said, looking intently into Neville's hazel-grey eyes. There was no hint of a question in the phrase. Neville's eyebrows went to the other extreme, shooting up in surprise.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Harry?" he asked, an almost nervous smile spreading across his face, the slightest hint of approval in his tone.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, going slightly up on his toes to nibble at Neville's neck.

"Well," Neville said, swallowing, "For one thing, you're not the nervous wreck I expected tonight. For another, usually I was the one who had you against the wall." He swallowed again as Harry nipped at his earlobe. "And who would continue to distract you while you attempted to talk. And who would tell you what you should do rather than ask."

Harry considered that for a moment, felt a sudden shock of understanding as it dawned on him what Neville was talking about. He leaned away, heart thumping.

"Oh. Uh, I..." He suddenly felt bashful, now that Neville had pointed it out. "I spent a lot of time today wearing my 'I'm in charge here' robes. I think it stuck, a bit." He licked his lips. "Sorry?"

"Don't be," Neville said, pulling Harry closer. "I kind of like you this way." He kissed Harry soundly for a few moments, then broke away. "But...it's a bad idea. We're not...we haven't talked things over yet, and that needs to happen before we can even pretend—"

"Neville," Harry said, locking eyes with him again. "If I'm taking a leaf from your book, then you take a leaf from mine: don't think about it. Act on impulse. Don't be overly concerned with consequences. Just...do what feels right." He pressed his hips against Neville's and Neville closed his eyes for a moment. "Stay tonight."

"You make a very convincing argument," Neville said, eyes still closed. He took a deep breath through his nose, gave Harry's shoulders a little squeeze, then opened his eyes, looking directly into Harry's, and exhaled. "Okay." He began to kick off his shoes, not breaking the eye contact as he shoved them to the side with his foot. He licked his lips. "Tell me what to do, Harry."


	8. Chapter 8

Ginny didn't think she'd ever seen Harry so...content.

The last month, he'd alternated between ridiculously enthusiastic and barely hidden strain, like fabric about to fray. The night they'd spent together he'd been extremely focused on what he was doing, as though trying to forget everything else. And before that, the last she'd seen more than glimpses of him at family functions had been before she'd started dating _that man_ , four years ago–Harry had been an absolute wreck then, barely sleeping for night terrors and anxious and irritable during the day. Ginny honestly didn't know how Neville had put up with him in those years after school. She knew now that he had been experiencing almost the same sort of extreme mental trauma that newly-made ghosts did, but at the time had lost patience very quickly at his outbursts and paranoia. But Neville had been there, and obviously in the intervening years, while she had been involved with her own personal He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he had managed to tame the darkness that had threatened to change Harry into someone unrecognizable.

And now, as he placed a tin of ginger biscuits in the middle of the smaller of the two kitchen tables around which they were gathered, he exuded an aura of calmness, of control, of a quiet happiness. His hand was steady and warm when he squeezed her shoulder as he sat down. He exchanged a smile with Neville that could have melted the ice forming on the windowpanes as he scooted his chair closer to the table. Was this the Harry that Neville had always seen? The Harry that had always been hidden behind the stressed and strained exterior? If it was, it was very clear to her how Neville could have fallen so hard for him, and found him so hard to give up.

"All right," Neville said, now that Harry had sat down. His mouth twisted slightly, his brows furrowing, as though he didn't know how to continue. He looked to Harry, who shrugged.

Obviously, if anything was going to get done tonight, she'd have to give the conversation some momentum. There was only so much shrugging that she would put up with. Boys were bad at words. "You mentioned something in your letter about a 'mad sort of three-way family,' Neville," she said.

"Yes," Neville said. He licked his lips, a habit that had always driven one of her school friends to distraction. She'd been quite devastated at the revelation that Neville preferred male company. "It...took me a while to come to terms with everything. But Harry, I still love you." Ginny's heart warmed slightly at the expression Neville directed at Harry with those words. "And it's clear that if I want you back, I'm going to have to...get over..." he made a face. "I rehearsed this all yesterday, I swear," he said, looking down at the table with his cheeks flushing.

Harry reached over and took Neville's hand, obviously biting back fond laughter. Ginny smirked inwardly. This conversation was really just a formality. They were already back together, even if they weren't aware of it yet.

"Any relationship we have is going to have to include some special provisions for you," Neville said finally, turning his gaze to Ginny. She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"I can't just treat you as 'the other woman,'" Neville said, returning his eyes to the table, glancing up every so often. "I could maybe get away with it if you and Harry weren't having a son. But you are. You're always going to be around. Harry's always going to have that bond with you, which is something I'll never have. I can't just sit in a corner and silently resent you for eighteen years. That's like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die."

"I'll stay out of your way," Ginny said quickly, an odd feeling settling at the bottom of her stomach that had nothing to do with the child growing there and everything to do with the guilt she still felt. She knew she didn't belong at this table, in Harry's house–Harry's and Neville's house, rather. She felt like an intruder on this entire conversation, with Harry holding Neville's hand and the tension of found-again lovers crackling between them almost visibly.

Neville shook his head. "That's no good either. That's splitting Harry between two lives, and really doesn't change the whole 'other woman' thing." He took a deep breath. "And I don't think you want to have to feel like you're 'sharing' him either. And we wouldn't be, not really. He's going to be playing two totally different roles. But...god, I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore." He placed one hand over his eyes, rested his forehead on it.

"I think what he's trying to say, and failing miserably," Harry said, stepping to Neville's rescue, "is that for us–" he gestured between the two of them–"to work, we all need to work. We all have to get along. We basically have to be a family."

"Yes. That." Neville said.

"Don't use forty words when four will do, love," Harry said with an impish grin.

"Shut it," Neville said offhandedly. He let out a great sigh. "I'm still trying to forgive you," he said bluntly, looking at Ginny for a fleeting moment. "It's...difficult. It's an interesting lesson in humility. But we were friends, once. I think we could be again. Probably closer friends than we were in school." He made a noise that was almost a laugh. "We'd better be. You're having Harry's kid."

Ginny smiled faintly. "So what exactly are you asking me to do that I wasn't going to do already?"

"Be available," Harry said promptly. "Don't do this whole 'shutting yourself away because you're independent' thing that you've been doing for weeks. You've proven it, you can take care of yourself. It's admirable, but now..."

Ginny understood. "Now things are different. Now there's a baby that needs a father. And a godfather."

Neville blinked.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Oh, please. Like we'd ask anyone else." She waved her hand before replacing it on her middle, where it tended to automatically go whenever she wanted to rest it somewhere. It was a bit like having pockets.

"Well, no," Harry admitted, glancing at Neville, "But we've not even discussed what we're calling him yet, let alone who godparents will be."

"James," Ginny said decisively. "As you won't condone naming him Harry, we'll use your middle name." She reached out and grabbed a biscuit to nibble to cover her sudden shyness. Now that she'd put the name forward, she hoped against hope he wouldn't reject it. Much as she made quite clear the fact that she did not want to marry him, she did feel a very strong urge to have some obvious connection as to who the boy's father was. She was not entirely certain how surnames were going to work yet.

To her very great surprise, Harry reached out and placed his hand on her stomach. "Is that your name, then?" he asked the general area of her navel. Neville shifted somewhat uncomfortably. Suddenly it seemed as though roles had been switched; she and Harry were the intimate ones, excluding Neville. She saw immediately what he had been trying to grope for words for earlier; if they did not all become close, and quickly, things were bound to become very painful for all of them. Harry would get the lion's share, caught in the middle as he was.

Still, no reason why she couldn't dig her heels in somewhat. "I expect you'll be wanting me to move in?" she asked in an offhand manner as she brushed biscuit crumbs off her hands.

Neville and Harry shared a quick look as Harry sat back up, taking his hand off her belly. It was clear the subject had come up between them; possibly before she had gotten there that evening. More likely during pillow talk last night, if she didn't miss her guess. "I don't know," Harry said slowly. "We haven't talked about whether we're..."

"We haven't even figured out if we're actually getting back together yet," Neville interrupted, trying to sound firm but really sounding more uncertain and lost. Ginny snorted.

"You already are. Don't deny it, I've never seen a couple so touchy-feely that hasn't just recently had make-up sex. You can't keep your hands off each other, let alone your eyes." She knew she'd deduced correctly when Harry's cheeks colored faintly, and Neville coughed. "Everything else is just hammering out the details."

"When the details involve me deciding if this is something I can do, they're pretty bloody big details," Neville insisted. "I don't–"

"You do know, or you wouldn't be here," Ginny interjected. "You know you want to try. So let's try. There are some things that you can't just think your way through, and this is one of them." She narrowed her eyes then as she saw a slight stubborn line form between his eyebrows. "Harry, could Neville and I talk alone for a moment?"

Harry looked taken aback. "Um. Sure." He pushed back his chair and left the kitchen, looking over his shoulder quizzically at them as he exited the room.

Ginny took a deep breath and slid into the seat next to Neville that Harry had just vacated. She felt butterflies in her stomach that she resolutely pushed to the side. "You and I have issues. And they're going to be a problem if we don't air them out right now."

"I don't have issues, I just don't know if I can do this," Neville said plaintively. "It's a bit of a tall order, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," Ginny agreed. "And it's hard _because_ you have issues. Some of them are the same as I've got–jealousy being a big one. Some, only you've got, and you've a right to them: trust, mostly. You don't trust me, you don't trust Harry, and I understand that. Harry's going to have to earn the trust back, and I reckon he's already gotten a good start. But." She reached out and lifted Neville's chin so he would stop looking at the bloody table. He was such a sweet man, but you could swear he was being charged by the minute for eye contact. "Jealousy and trust issues between us can only get ugly."

"I know," Neville said, leaning back to escape Ginny's hand. "That's why I don't know if I can do this. Haven't you been listening?"

"And haven't you been listening to me?" Ginny returned. "We can't afford to have these issues, not and be able to make sure Harry doesn't go completely starkers. _Would you look at me when I'm talking to you!_ " Neville's eyes snapped back up from the table, startled. "We aren't fighting over him. We're already getting exactly what we need from him. And he's more than happy to give it, to both of us. Part of our issue is that we _feel_ like we shouldn't trust one another, we _feel_ like we should be jealous. But you said it earlier, we're not sharing him. He's not a finite resource. Neither of us gets less because one is getting something. He's got plenty of affection of all kinds to give." Maybe he didn't make eye contact because he knew how intense his gaze could be. She felt a bit like shivering as he furrowed his brow, obviously thinking about what she'd just said.

"So it's as easy as deciding that I shouldn't be jealous, then?" Neville asked, somewhat sardonically.

"Of course it isn't. But making that decision is the first step." She sighed, a bit sadly. The butterflies swept through her stomach again, for no real reason this time. "It's not going to be easy. We can be logical all we want, but life is never logical. Still, the only way we can muddle through is to just start muddling." She reached out tentatively to put her hand on Neville's shoulder. "It's in our best interests to make Harry as happy as we possibly can, isn't it?"

"You could say that," Neville admitted.

"Then I say we go ahead and muddle for all we're worth." Again, those damn butterflies–

Her eyes widened suddenly. " _Oh!_ " she said, her hand flying to her stomach.

"What?" Neville asked, his brows knitting together in concern now rather than contemplation.

"The baby," she said, looking down in amazement. "He's...kicking." She reached out and grabbed Neville's hand, placed it on her stomach without even thinking. "Feel it, right there?" She ignored his look of awkward surprise–too late now to do anything about it.

"...No." He tried to take his hand away, but she held it there.

"Well, he's stopped now, but–right there!" She laughed delightedly. "Harry!" she called, hoping he hadn't wandered upstairs. "Come quickly!"

"I felt it that time," Neville said, an awed note to his voice. Totally unprompted, he looked into Ginny's eyes with amazement. Harry burst into the kitchen.

"What is it?"

"The baby is kicking," Ginny announced, "First time I've really felt it. Come here."

Harry did not have to be told twice. He knelt in front of Ginny's chair, reached out.

"Here–just here–" Neville moved his hand so Harry could place his. There was a moment of tense waiting, and then...

"That feels so bizarre," Harry said, an exuberant smile lighting up his face.

"Try having it inside," Ginny responded. "It feels like I've swallowed a chocolate frog whole before it's stopped jumping." She laughed. "And here I just thought I was having nervous butterflies. I may have been feeling strange lately, but that definitely wasn't like me."

"Strange?" Harry asked, looking up. "Strange how?"

"Nothing to worry about," she said with a smile. "The other day I forgot the word for 'shoe.' And yesterday I swear I lost an entire hour of my day, just after I sent poor Melinda to you. Mum says it's normal, she was so forgetful when she was pregnant that she'd put the tea towels in the oven. That's why I never sent Neville that owl, see–I'd forgotten that I was supposed to."

"You forgot the word for _shoe_?" Neville asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Couldn't have told you what it was to save my life," Ginny answered in an amused tone. "And I'm in the office alone most of the time, I couldn't even ask anyone what the word was. I'm almost scared that if I do, someone will give me a totally different word just to take the mickey out of me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Neville said with a completely straight face.

"You would and you know it," Ginny said, swatting him.

Harry watched their banter, a bemused expression on his face. "I take it you two made up, then?" he asked.

That brought Ginny up short, and she looked at Neville with a faint feeling of surprise that was reflected on his own face. Somewhere in the last few minutes, a barrier had fallen, at least for her; instead of a slightly hostile, possessive man, she saw the Neville she had known from school sitting across from her–older, certainly, but the same Neville who had rescued her from various punishments from the Carrows at the expense of himself, who had cracked jokes with her in the Room of Requirement when she was too proud to admit she was scared, had insisted she eat the food he'd managed to steal from the kitchens instead of him. Something in his eyes–and, yes, those ridiculously expressive eyebrows of his–said that he was recalling that same bond they'd had, those many years ago. Suddenly it could have been the Gryffindor common room they were sitting in at the beginning of that last year, and not the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, and Neville telling her quite seriously that he'd do whatever it took to protect her.

Neville cleared his throat. "We're muddling," he said to Harry, with a hint of a smile in his eyes as he glanced at Ginny. Ginny hid a smile behind her hand.

"Muddling," Harry said, completely nonplussed.

"Nothing for you to worry about, dear," Ginny said, ruffling his hair. The baby kicked again.

"Atta boy, James," Harry said, a little shyly. He looked up. "I like it. It seems to suit him."

"Then James it is," Ginny said, giving a little satisfied sigh as she settled back into her chair. "Only took sixteen weeks to come up with it."

"Be fair," Harry said. "For, what, twelve of them we didn't know he existed."

"I did," Ginny pointed out. "Or I suspected. I'd known for a good four or five weeks before I told you, I just had no idea how best to bring it up."

"Has it really been sixteen weeks?" Neville asked, and Ginny could tell he was itching to count on his fingers.

"They use special math when they figure out these things," Ginny said soothingly. "Close enough, though."

"Well, then," Neville said. He stood up, pulled Harry to his feet, and held Harry at arm's length. "Harry, it's been sixteen weeks–or close enough–since we made some of the stupidest mistakes of our lives. Do you want to learn from those mistakes with me? And keep making more mistakes with me, hopefully of the less stupid variety? For, say, the foreseeable future?"

Ginny had to hold back laughter as Harry actually giggled. It was possibly the most adorable thing she'd ever seen.

"Do you even have to ask?" Harry replied, his smile doing more to light up the kitchen than the lamps on the walls.

"It's the polite thing to do," Neville said. "If you'd prefer, though–" he brushed Harry's hair out of his eyes, then leaned down to kiss him.

It looked like one hell of a kiss. Ginny averted her eyes with a small smile, purposefully crushing the tiny sprout of jealousy beneath a giant imaginary boot heel. She looked up when the movement at the corner of her eye indicated that they'd parted.

"Ah," Harry said as he noticed Ginny was still there.

Ginny knew her cue. She rose from her chair, kissed Harry and Neville both on the cheeks–she had to go up on her tiptoes for Neville, blimey, he was tall–and said, "Carry on, boys. I know where the fireplace is."

They had left the kitchen by the time she threw the Floo powder into the grate, and with a flick of her wand, she put out the lamps in the kitchen before departing. Boys never remembered that sort of thing, and besides, they seemed distracted.

It wasn't until she had tucked herself into bed in her flat–which suddenly seemed very lonely and empty–that she let out a little sigh. She didn't begrudge Harry and Neville their happiness, not one iota, and she certainly didn't blame little James, sitting warm and snug beneath her heart. But she knew, quite definitely, that if things progressed the way they had begun tonight, it would be a very long time before she would be kissed like that again.

Maybe she would move in with them. If they offered, and wanted her to. The more she thought about it, the more it gave her a little warm glow in her middle, the thought of them being a little family. Unconventional, certainly, but it was a pleasing thought nonetheless.

She smiled to herself and turned over, closing her eyes. Hopefully she'd dream about something other than catching rabbits tonight; it had been a particularly odd and unsettling dream last night, and she'd not felt rested all day because of it. Luckily today had not been a busy one at the office–in fact, it had been so boring that she couldn't even remember what she'd done to pass the time. Paperwork, most likely.

James kicked once more as she drifted off. The next battle, she decided, her last coherent thought before sleep found her, would be his middle name.


	9. Chapter 9

Spring was welcomed early that year, settling in around mid-March and truly present by the beginning of April, making everything chilly and wet rather than freezing and wet. It was still a welcome change from the snow that had been constantly falling and melting into a slushy mess as soon as it hit the ground, and the streets outside Twelve Grimmauld Place were filled with the brightly-colored rain jackets and umbrellas of spring.

It was one of those exceptionally lazy Sunday mornings. Lying partially awake, Harry could hear the rain dripping in the gutter outside the bedroom window, and he snuggled down deeper into the blankets.

"Hm?" Neville asked sleepily, lifting his head from the pillow.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"Mm hmm. Righ'." Neville threw an arm across Harry's chest and pulled him close before his arm went lax and breathing deepened again. Harry allowed himself a small smile. Neville might never again be a sound sleeper after what he'd gone through in his last year at school, but he certainly knew how to fall asleep at a moment's notice when he wanted to. Harry laced his fingers through Neville's and lay in a contented half-doze, listening to the rain.

He could hear movement downstairs. Ginny normally wasn't an early riser, but apparently the baby was, kicking and moving about for all he was worth and waking her. Harry contemplated getting out of bed and going down to the kitchen, maybe make some breakfast, but that would involve throwing back the lovely warm sheets, and ducking out from under Neville's arm, and reaching all the way across the nightstand to put on his glasses, and it all just seemed like far too much work at the moment.

He turned onto his side, facing Neville, who furrowed his brows slightly even when asleep. His mouth hung halfway open and his slightly louder breathing was not quite snoring. Harry smiled slightly and kissed him on the forehead. Neville opened one eye.

"Mmmph. What time is it?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes.

"Quarter of eight. You shouldn't be awake."

"I've already slept two hours later than I usually do." Neville yawned, arching his back in a lazy stretch. He pulled Harry closer to him, inhaled deeply as he buried his face in his hair. "You smell good."

"I need a shower."

"Doesn't matter. You smell like you."

Harry closed his eyes and settled into Neville's arms. He only got to have him on the weekends; Neville stayed at Hogwarts during the week, though they seemed to be developing a pattern in which he'd stay the night at least once or twice after dinner during the workweek as well. He felt the familiar warm morning ache in his groin begin to stir, now that he was awake; he ignored it for now.

"We doing anything important today?" Neville asked. Harry could feel his voice rumble in his chest.

"Yes. We're staying right here for a couple of years. And then we're going to go eat something, and then we're coming back here." Harry pecked a kiss on the underside of Neville's chin, the only spot of his face easily accessible at the moment.

"Hmm, Ginny might get a bit put out if we ignore her all day."

"Ginny's a big girl, and we've got books."

"You make it sound very tempting." Neville kissed the top of his head and gave Harry a little squeeze, sighing contentedly. Harry squeezed back.

"Are you happy?" Harry asked suddenly. "With how things have turned out, I mean?"

"Hm? Course I am. I've got you, haven't I?"

"And what about Ginny?"

"What about her? She's a sweetheart. We were mates in school, you know...connected that last year...it's good to know her all grown up, now. She's an amazing lady." Harry listened for traces of jealousy in Neville's reply, was slightly surprised to not detect any.

"So you don't...you're not..."

Neville drew back slightly to bring Harry into his field of vision. "We had differences. We've worked them out, mostly. And..." he hesitated. "She's a good foil for you. You seem to realize how...ridiculous you can be sometimes, when you've got someone so similar to reflect your arguments back at you. I think when we argue, now, you have a thought for what you're saying."

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"And...I know it sounds mad, but she seems to fit in. With us. Like she was something we were...missing." Neville shrugged. "Am I happy? Yeah. I really am." He looked intently into Harry's eyes. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Harry said, snugging up against Neville's chest again. "I really do have everything I could ever want. Except you during the week, I suppose."

"You'll have that during summer holidays. And Easter holidays, those are coming up."

"Summer hols will be odd. We'll have a baby around."

"There is that. I imagine you won't be getting too much sleep."

"What, you won't be helping?" Harry asked playfully.

"Course I will. You know I will. Don't be ridiculous." He gave Harry another squeeze. "We're in this together. All of us."

A shriek from downstairs split the happy morning silence like a knife. Harry sat bolt upright in bed, his heart suddenly pounding, and then he had grabbed his wand from the bedside table and disappeared down the corner. Neville could hear his footsteps thundering on the stairs. Neville didn't waste time with stairs; he grabbed Harry's forgotten glasses and his own wand and Apparated directly into the kitchen. He still arrived only seconds before Harry, but that was enough time to take in the blood spattered on the tile of the kitchen floor and Ginny looking very pale as she sank into a chair.

"What happened?" Neville demanded, thrusting Harry's glasses into his hands behind him. "What's wrong?"

"I...it's nothing, I just cut myself on the lid of the kipper tin...but..." She shook her head, eyes staring somewhere very far away. "I don't actually remember coming down to the kitchen. I was going to sleep last night, and now I'm here." She returned her gaze to Neville and Harry in front of her, her eyes troubled. "It's more than the forgetfulness I've been having. I...it's like I wasn't even aware I was doing anything until I cut myself."

"Did you hurt yourself badly?" Harry asked, reaching out to take Ginny's hand. She gave it, and Neville shuddered; a great gash spread across the entire palm. "How did you manage to do this?" he asked, his eyes full of concern. "A kipper tin isn't that sharp."

"I don't know," she fairly wailed. She looked so frightened and shaken that Harry took her in his arms, stroking her hair. Neville took the bleeding hand and drew his wand over the cut, muttering one of the overly-complicated skin-knitting incantations he'd had to learn before Pomona would let him near the Razorspine nettle. The skin sealed itself back together, leaving a thin white scar behind on her blood-smeared palm. Ginny hissed in pain—the spell did feel a bit like burning—and then settled into whimpering tears. Neville held her hand in both of his as Harry continued to hold her to him, rocking her slightly and murmuring soothing words.

Neville's eyes scanned the kitchen. He did not see a tin of kippers anywhere.

* * *

It took a significant amount of both morning and tea to calm Ginny down. The post had come and gone by the time she had stopped shaking and they all realized they were absolutely ravenous, and Harry busied himself with a griddle and eggs while Neville separated the post.

"Market day today," Harry observed over his shoulder. "We're out of sausages."

"Didn't we just buy some?" Neville asked.

"Yes, and I ate it all," Ginny replied, voice still slightly trembling, belying her earlier ordeal.

"All of it?" Neville gaped. Ginny managed a laugh.

"Never underestimate the hunger of a pregnant woman. Especially when sausage is the only thing that sounds good at the moment. I could have eaten a bushel more."

"I will never understand you," Neville proclaimed as he buried himself behind that month's issue of The British Journal of Applied Magical Herbology.

Harry prodded at the eggs on the griddle with his wand; they wobbled at him. He only half-listened to the banter behind him as he watched the egg whites go opaque, but as he levitated the eggs onto toast a minute later a snatch of conversation snapped at his attention.

"We're still arguing about the surname, actually—"

"No we're not," Harry said as he plunked plates down in front of Ginny and Neville, who was still engrossed in his magazine. "We decided already, it's James Potter-Weasley."

"I changed my mind, which means we're arguing again." Ginny calmly dolloped marmalade atop her egg and toast. "I don't want to hyphenate. It's more of a Muggle thing, you see?"

"Justin was a Finch-Fletchley. And there was Professor Grubbly-Plank," Harry pointed out.

"And Justin was Muggle-born, wasn't he? I can't speak for Professor Grubbly-Plank, but I'd be surprised if one or both of her parents weren't Muggles. Or she may have remarried, that's one of the only times you'll find wizards and witches hyphenating their surnames." Ginny took a bite of her toast after this little speech.

"But he's as much a Weasley as a Potter, if we're not married," Harry protested. "And we're both going to be raising him."

"By that logic, he should have Neville's surname too, as Neville's going to be playing Daddy near as much as you," Ginny pointed out.

"I vote we not rob London of all its syllables," Neville interjected, not lifting his eyes from his magazine. "Besides, James Sirius Potter-Weasley-Longbottom doesn't even have a pronounceable acronym."

Harry ignored this. "That's not what logically follows, Neville's godfather, he's not the actual father—"

"Monogram would look like rubbish, too, all scrunched—"

"Neville, hush," Ginny said briskly. Neville smirked into the pages he was reading, although Harry got the feeling he was not actually reading, just studying them intently. "You're the head of the household, that means he gets your surname."

"Oh?" Harry said, eyebrow flying up. "Did you hear that, Neville? I'm suddenly head of the household."

"Thank god," Neville said, absently feeling for his toast. "Maybe you'll all do your own damn chores now without me harping at you." He dodged the strawberry that Ginny threw at him, an impressive feat as he still hadn't looked up from his magazine.

"What can possibly be in there that's got you so enthralled?" Ginny demanded, reaching over and snatching it. Instead of protesting, however, Neville bit back what looked to be a smug grin—though he couldn't seem to control his eyebrows as they went up in a self-satisfied way—as her eyes scanned the article title and she squealed.

"What?" Harry asked, leaning across the table to grab it. She held it out of his reach, reading it aloud instead.

"'Non-Interference and its Effects on the Long-Term Maturation of Dragonsnap Pods, _by Neville Longbottom_ ,'" she read in a grandiose voice.

"You got published?" Harry asked in disbelief. Neville was obviously trying not to look too pleased with himself.

"Passed the peer review last month. This issue just went into print yesterday."

"When were you going to tell us?" Ginny demanded.

"I've been waiting at least a quarter hour for you to ask me what I was reading," Neville replied, grabbing the journal back from Ginny. "You know I don't gloat unless the stage has been properly set."

"When did you find the time to do the research?" Harry asked.

"Well," Neville said with a twisted smile, "It wasn't exactly intentional research. I planted the Dragonsnaps back in fourth year and kind of...forgot about them. Pomona never threw them out. I rediscovered them in the greenhouses what, ten years later, and lo and behold." He smirked. "In herbology, this kind of study is considered completely valid if you do it on purpose."

"What, forget about it?" Ginny asked.

"No, set something up and leave it for several years with no intervention, then come back. Pomona told me I should write a paper and submit it for publication. I did. And now I am a published Herbologist." He allowed himself a satisfied smile, then looked to Harry. "So. James Sirius Potter, then? We're done with all that?"

Harry made a face. "It has to be Potter?" he asked plaintively.

"Yes," Ginny and Neville said together, before glancing at each other and laughing.

Harry knew when he'd lost. The best he could do was lose graciously. He let out an exaggerated sigh. "At least the monogram won't be scrunched, I suppose. We've got to consider the important things, after all."

* * *

Harry ripped the top sheet of the calendar off, staring at the date. May 6. How could it possibly be May already? It almost seemed as though the days went by faster based on their proximity to June. There was a knock at the door that made Harry jump before he pointed his wand to open it. Jameson stood on the other side, a sheaf of files in his hands.

"Good morning, Potter. Enjoying the new office?"

"To be quite honest, sir, I'm still not sure what to do with it," Harry said, looking around at the bare walls. "I'd hardly got used to having a desk yet. Now I have walls and a door with a window and a filing cabinet and a little rug under my chair."

"If you pull the shade down over the window, it's a great place to take a nap," Jameson advised. Harry smirked.

"Still don't think I should have one. An office, I mean."

"You should have gotten an office when you made Auror," Jameson said dismissively. "You've been moving up the ranks so fast that you'll have my office before long."

"Oh, I doubt that," Harry said, feeling his ears begin to burn. "I've got a long way to go yet."

"Not that long, and if I get things my way, you'll be wearing my badge before your son gets his first broomstick. Speaking of which, here's the approval for your leave of absence next month. Enjoy your last few weeks of full nights of sleep." He handed over a green sheet of parchment to a dumbfounded Harry. He'd strongly suspected that Jameson was grooming him to be head of the department, but he'd had no idea that Jameson thought he'd be ready so soon. He'd only been a full Auror for a year, and with the ministry for five. There were dozens of Aurors with years of seniority over him, a few with decades.

"I'm...flattered, sir," he said, taking the parchment.

"Only because you don't give yourself enough credit. When I retire, I plan to leave the department in capable hands. You're easily the most capable man we've got on this floor. However, that is some time off. Right now, I need your capable hands handling this." Jameson handed over the rest of the files he was holding. Harry flipped open one of the files to see it contained photographs of jewelry and trinkets that somehow looked sinister.

"Dark objects?" Harry asked, flipping through the pictures.

"Every one of them. Confiscated in a raid two nights ago. However, the chap got away—and the team that raided the place are fairly sure he took a case of stuff with him." Jameson tapped the page Harry was looking at, a picture of a magnificent gold torc set with gigantic sapphires. "What was left behind was nasty enough that they're very worried about what he got away with. That piece there will boil the wearer's blood when a trigger word is said."

Harry shuddered. "I'll never understand why people make things like this."

"Neither will I. Anyway, chasing down Dark blokes that leave little trail seems to be your forté. You'll be working closely with the Misuse of Magical Artifacts office; your liaison will be Jennifer Stout. You've resources for the typical squad of one Junior Auror and five Hit-Wizards. I imagine you'll be using your regular team?" Harry nodded, turning the problem over in his head, making a list of what he could do today to get the ball rolling before the weekend. The Dark artifacts would have maker's marks on them somewhere, that might tell him where they were from, although tracking down previous owners would likely be a waste of time...

He looked down at the folders in his hands. "And this folder?"

"Dark Arts dealers in the area. The ones who sell these sorts of things for 'historical value.' They're usually not too particular about keeping receipts, but a few of those on the list will cooperate if you ask some very specific questions. And keep Willoughby appraised of everything that is going on, since he's the one who will be taking over the case while you're off next month."

"I'll do that," Harry said distantly, flipping through the pages of the second folder. "I like Willoughby. He's like a bulldog, doesn't let go once he's onto something."

"Much like yourself, Potter. Have a good weekend." Jameson winked inexplicably and left Harry's office, closing the door behind him. Harry blinked. What on earth had the wink been for?

Harry's day passed in a flurry of activity. He met with his liaison in the Misuse of Magical Artifacts office, assembled his default squad—only Perry would have much to do until they had leads to go on, but they still needed to be alerted to the investigation—and made a list of the Dark Arts dealers he would call upon early next week (assuming, of course, they were where they had been when last seen). He turned down a request to be interviewed by The Daily Prophet. He pinned his maps up on the stark white walls, in an attempt to make his office seem more personal. He wasn't positive if he'd succeeded yet; it still looked like someone else's office, but now with his maps on the wall. He turned down another two requests for interviews; suddenly it seemed he was a hot topic for some reason. He somewhat guiltily chucked the day's Daily Prophet into the bin. He hadn't had a chance to do more than glance at the headline, and wasn't particularly interested in the summary of the new statutes the Ministry had passed in the last week (an article that looked to take up the entire first page and continue on pages 2, 3, 7, and 12). By six o' clock, satisfied that he'd had a productive day, he swung his robe over his shoulder and strode to the lobby.

"Congratulations, Potter," someone called behind him, just before he had intended to Apparate. He turned, trying to pinpoint who had said it, but there were far too many people, although many of them seemed to be beaming at him. He glanced around, but the longer he stood, the more people seemed to be turning to look at him with broad grins. Nonplussed, he shrugged, and turned tightly on the spot for home.

"Anyone home?" he called as he opened the door. It was usually a useless question; Ginny nearly always was, and as it was Friday, he'd be surprised if Neville wasn't already here as well. Tonight, though, only Neville answered.

"In the living room. C'mere, I've got something for you."

He sounded excited. Harry laid his robe over the banister of the stairs—that would drive Neville mad later but it wasn't his fault they didn't have a place to put a coat rack—and stepped into the living room.

"What is it?" Harry asked. "And where's Ginny?"

"She's visiting her mother. I...asked if I could have you to myself this evening." Neville smiled shyly, and Harry raised an eyebrow. Neville hadn't been shy with him since they first started dating.

"Right on, then." He spotted what Neville was holding, and a grin broke out on his face. "I forgot that book came out this week!" Neville handed it over, his face oddly composed. "Thanks, Nev, I..." he paused. The book didn't feel quite right. He sat down in his chair and flipped open the cover...and froze.

"Harry," Neville said, kneeling down in front of him, now completely unable to hide the smile that spread across his face as he rested both hands lightly on Harry's knee. Harry almost couldn't hear him, he was so focused on the hollow carved within the pages of the book, inside which was nestled a ring, brushed gold with a smooth border. "We've spent nearly seven years talking about Someday. And Someday's here. The Ministry passed it yesterday. I'm sure you read about it."

Harry licked his lips, mind whirling. "Read about what?" he asked stupidly.

Neville laughed, almost nervously, fishing the ring from its hollow in the book with shaking hands. "I can finally ask you, and have it be real to everyone, not just us. Harry, will you share the rest of your life with me? That is to say, will you marry me?"

Harry blinked, dumbfounded. What was…was this really happening? "Yes! Of course!" He blurted, scared that if he didn't play along, it would all go away. He stared in disbelief as Neville took his shaking left hand in his own, sliding the gold band over his knuckles. It felt conspicuous there, heavy and shining and _real_ , and Harry almost could not take his eyes off it, but did, to look into Neville's beaming face.

"Shall we go have dinner?" Neville asked in an overly casual voice. "I'd like to go brag about my new fiancee to anyone who will listen."

"Fiancee," Harry repeated numbly, eyes going back to the ring. He felt like laughing himself senseless. He also felt slightly like throwing up, his stomach was churning with so much emotion.

Fiancee. He was going to be married. To Neville. To the man he'd shared more than half his life with, and had loved to distraction for much of that, whom he'd feared he'd lost forever and had found again. A giddiness bubbled up within him, and he threw his arms around Neville, laughing for lack of words to say, kissing him wherever he could plant his lips.

"I didn't even know it was up for consideration," Harry managed to say after several minutes of this, during which Neville had somehow replaced his position in the chair and displaced Harry to sitting partly on the chair's arm, partly on Neville's lap. "I haven't been reading the Prophet."

"It was very quiet," Neville said. "Buried in an old list of bylaws they were overturning or amending. They came across this one, deliberated for thirty minutes, and then wrote it into a new law: any two persons of legal adult age, of sound mind, may make a Bonding Vow of Matrimony as performed by a Ministry or otherwise qualified official, provided two witnesses are present. And the Ministry will recognize it as a legal marriage, not just a registered Unbreakable Vow."

"That must be why people were smiling at me all day today," Harry said, suddenly making the connection. "Our relationship is one of the more public ones. I had people I didn't even know offering me condolences when we broke up."

"Stupidest thing we ever did," Neville said, resting his chin atop Harry's head. "Let's never do that again."

"Oh, is that what this means?" Harry teased, twisting the ring around his finger. Neville smiled and held his hand to look at the ring.

"I actually got this the week after we got back together," he admitted. "After not having you for what seemed like forever, I knew that I wasn't going to let you go again. But I was too chicken to give it to you. It was too soon, or we'd just had an argument, or some other ridiculous reason. But I read the Prophet this morning at breakfast—McGonagall pointed it out to me, actually—and I knew that I had to do it tonight." He drew Harry closer to him. "It's really happening. Finally. We're going to get married."

Harry's heart warmed considerably as he nestled into Neville's chest. He was quite sure that there was little in the world that would be able to wipe the smile from his face.

"Dinner, then?" Neville asked. "There's about three dozen people waiting at the Leaky Cauldron to help us celebrate." Harry looked up sharply. Neville shrugged. "You know Ginny's very bad at keeping secrets. It might be four dozen by now."

"They can wait a half hour more," Harry said. "We're going to do some celebrating by ourselves first."

Neville's answering smile was every bit as mischievous as Harry's.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry listlessly tossed his quill at the corkboard on the far wall like a dart, summoning it back to him with his wand before tossing it again. He was getting better, he could almost always hit what he was aiming for now.

Someone knocked at his door; a quick glance through the small window confirmed that it was Marjorie Foster, the hit-witch on his current squad. "Come in," he called, not pausing in his rhythmic throwing and summoning, nor did he sit up in his chair. Lounging was far more comfortable.

Marjorie watched him for a few moments. "Don't you look busy."

Harry left the quill quivering on the photograph of the latest suspect who had turned out to be innocent, but Harry secretly wished he could arrest for something anyway. "It seems unwise for me to open any new lines of questioning when I'm going to be pulled away any day now. Willoughby's taken over for the time being. And I've nothing to do, unless I really want to go help out in Archives, and I'm sure you'll all forgive me if I don't."

"Baby obviously isn't born yet?" Marjorie asked.

"Baby was due about a week ago. I asked her if she was going to induce labor, but apparently that's a Muggle thing." He summoned the quill back, threw it again. "So's going to a hospital, apparently."

"A hospital? What on earth would they do with a baby in the hospital?" Marjorie asked, flummoxed.

"That's what she said." Summon. Throw. "Met the midwife last week, though." Summon. Throw. "I knew I was born at home, but it never really occurred to me to ask how it's normally done." Summon. Throw. "Muggles go to hospitals when they're in labor. Which makes perfect sense to me, as they've got _babies coming out of them_." Summon. Throw.

Marjorie chuckled and shook her head. "Witches are a tougher sort. What about wedding planning? Doing any of that?"

Harry raised his eyebrows and looked over at Marjorie. "Do I really strike you as someone who can plan a wedding? I can hardly plan afternoon tea. If it doesn't involve rushing in somewhere with wands blazing, I can't plan for rubbish. No, Neville's grandmother is taking care of those preparations. We pretty much just have to show up and act like we're madly in love." Summon. Throw. "It's not happening until August. There'll be cake. I have to buy new dress robes. That's really all I know." Summon. Throw.

"Are you relaxed?" Marjorie asked as her eyes followed the quill back and forth. Harry threw her a questioning look. "I was supposed to come in here to relax you. Are you relaxed?"

"Yeah, sure. Peachy. Why?"

"Because your fiancee is waiting outside. Apparently today is your son's birthday."

* * *

"What d'you mean, I'm not allowed in?" Harry asked, having been stopped at the door to the nursery by Mrs. Weasley.

"Menfolk have no business being around until there's an actual baby there," Mrs. Weasley told him in a no-nonsense tone.

"It's true," Neville said, pulling Harry's arm, "It's how it's always done, we get to sit downstairs, come on." He winced for some reason, putting his hand to his stomach.

"Hell no," Harry said, shaking Neville off. "That's my son, and I want to be there when he's born."

"Where on earth does he get this?" Mrs. Weasley asked Neville. "Is this a Muggle thing?"

"Yes," the midwife called from within the room. "I get it all the time with the half-bloods. You can come in if you really want, dear, but keep in mind Ginny's got a fiery temper and I'm not going to stop her wailing on you."

"I haven't got a fiery temper _yet_ ," came Ginny's voice as Harry looked pointedly at Mrs. Weasley, pushing past her. "The contractions have barely even started." Neville went pale as Harry grabbed his hand.

"Come on, then—"

"I think I'll stay out here," Neville said. _Where I'm supposed to be_ , it sounded like he wanted to add.

"You're being ridiculous. That's your godson being born in there. Don't you want to be there?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"That's not how we do things," Neville insisted. "The blokes all gather somewhere we can't hear the screaming and heckle the father. It's tradition."

"That's a stupid tradition," Harry pronounced, "And you're coming with me."

"Harry, he doesn't have to," Mrs. Weasley said firmly. "Leave him be if he doesn't want to go in."

"Fine." He shot a glare at Neville before sidling past Mrs. Weasley into the nursery.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he'd thought Ginny would be on a bed, and there would be a lot more bustling about. But she was standing up, leaning against the cot with a cup of tea, looking rather serene. The other women gathered in the room—Fleur, Audrey, Andromeda, even little Victoire—stared at him as though he'd sprouted horns. Hermione, however, just beginning to show signs of her own pregnancy, reached out to squeeze his hand.

"It's odd to me too," she said in a low voice, "but as it's the typical way things are done, I suppose I'd better learn about it."

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Harry blurted, ignoring Hermione. Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

"Bed? No. Are you mad? It'll be hours before the baby will be born, I'm not going to lay about until then. I'm not even sure why you're here already, you could have at least stayed until lunch hour."

Harry was having trouble finding the proper response to that. "Neville came and told me you were in labor. Of course I'm going to come home."

"I tried to get him to stay," Neville called from the hallway. "He wouldn't hear it."

"Here's how it works, dear," the midwife said, offering him a kindly smile as she handed him a cup of tea. Chamomile, by the smell of it. Harry took it without looking at it. "Ginny will be in this particular stage for a few hours as her body gets ready for the baby. She'll have contractions every few minutes. Once they stop having long pauses between, that's when we'll have her get in whatever position's most comfortable. And then that will take a few hours, most likely. It's really not as stressful as you're making it out to be, and among witches, it's a time for bonding and celebrating while the wizards have their own celebration elsewhere." She gave Harry a pointed look. "You're welcome to stay if she wants you here, but she's probably been expecting a...different sort of birth, given her upbringing."

"But..." Harry was absolutely bewildered. "I always thought I'd be able to be there, hold him—"

"Of course you'll get to hold him," Ginny cut in. "You think I'm not going to call you in as soon as it's all through? It's just the bloody and sweaty and naked bit we don't want you in here for." She smiled and reached out to touch his shoulder. "It's sweet that you want to be here. But it's like the midwife says, that's not the kind of thing I've been expecting, or really wanting."

Harry blinked. "Why didn't anyone tell me this is the way it is?" he asked, somewhat accusingly. "I could have...I don't know, prepared myself, come to terms with it."

"Darling, we assumed you knew," Mrs. Weasley said gently.

"I should have told you what to expect. I'm sorry." Ginny squeezed his shoulder, and then her grip became vice-like as her eyes went wide. "Merlin's saggy left _bollock_ , that one's strong," she gasped, setting her teacup down on a table with a clatter to put her other hand to her abdomen.

Outside in the hall, Neville gave a strangled yelp. Harry's head whipped around, along with everyone else's in the room except Ginny's, as she was currently holding herself up by Harry's shoulder and studying the floor very intently.

"Oh dear," the midwife sighed, getting up from her chair and making her way to the door. She opened it, and Harry could only just hear the conversation.

"You'd be the gay best friend? Neville, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Let me guess—you've been having back pain for no reason, mood swings, odd weight gain the last few months?"

"Yes? How did you know?"

The midwife laughed, then pulled Neville into the room. "Ginny, your friend here is having sympathy labor pains. This might get interesting."

" _WHAT_." Neville and Harry both stared as the room erupted into gales of laughter.

"It usually happens with the husband," the midwife said, attempting to hide her mirth and not particularly succeeding. "But as your family's not as cut and dry as all that, I'm not entirely surprised that it's Neville." She smiled fondly, patting a completely nonplussed Neville on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, but what exactly do you mean, 'sympathy labor?'" Harry asked.

"Occasionally, someone close to the mother will mimic her pregnancy and labor symptoms," the midwife explained. "Most often the father, but rarely you'll get siblings or very close friends, and you and Ginny are rather close, aren't you?" She directed this last at Neville, who nodded, looking rather put upon and somewhat horrified.

"That's not fair," he said plaintively, "I didn't sign up for this, you're the father, it's supposed to be you!" He looked almost accusingly at Harry. Harry held his hands up.

"It's not my fault!" he protested.

"Oh yes it is," Neville said, much to amusement of the gathered women, "You're the one who started this all off and got her preg _GAHHHHHH_!" Harry did not need the sudden grip on his shoulder to know that Ginny was also now doubled over. Hermione was trying very hard not to laugh; the rest of the women were not being nearly as nice. Fleur was actually wiping tears from her eyes.

The midwife checked her watch. "Hmm. Three minutes. Things may be progressing more quickly than we'd anticipated. We'll have to see if the pattern holds." She absently patted Neville on the back. "That's a good sport. You're in for a long day."

"You can't stop it?" Neville asked, his voice going up an octave in panic, or possibly pain, as he was still clutching at his abdomen.

"Oh, hush, Neville, they're just stomach cramps," Ginny admonished in a breathless voice. "I'm the one actually going into labor over here."

"Just stomach cramps?" Neville asked, looking at her in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much this hurts?" She arched an eyebrow at him. "Okay, wrong person to complain to. Fine. I get it." He grit his teeth and glared at everyone in the room, including Harry, who thought that distinctly unfair. In fact, he was probably the only other one in the room who didn't find this immensely amusing.

"I take it this is something else I'd have known about if I wasn't raised by Muggles?" he asked in a rather harsher tone than he'd meant to use.

"Oh, heavens no. Muggles get it too. It's a human condition sort of thing," the midwife said. She clapped Neville on the back again as he straightened up, his face red. "Like a champion, dear. It does tend to mirror a bit more closely among magic folk, though, no idea why. Here," she said, reaching out for Harry's hand. Harry gave it, bemused, and the midwife placed it on Neville's shoulder. "You wanted to be present for your son's birth. That's not something that's going to happen, but you'll get to have a very good surrogate experience looking after your fiancee. Preferably elsewhere."

"Wait, what's going to happen when she actually starts having the baby?" Neville asked, the note of panic now more pronounced. The midwife shrugged.

"No idea. Have fun." She rather firmly led them out the door and closed it.

Harry and Neville stared at each other. Neville took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair.

"I'm going to go get blind drunk," he said decisively.

"Neville, it's eleven in the morning," Harry pointed out.

"And I'm going to go get blind drunk."

"The pubs aren't even open yet."

Neville blinked. "Who said anything about a pub? There's a kitchen full of Weasleys downstairs who've brought all manner of intoxicants. I'm going to avail myself of them, right now." He started down the stairs, then whirled around. "And not a word of this to them."

Fairly certain everything would be made obvious the first time Neville doubled over in pain, Harry followed reluctantly. This was not going at all like he'd always thought it would.

* * *

Over the next hour and a half, family and friends trickled into the house. Not every woman was upstairs in the nursery; it seemed that was reserved for those closest to the mother. It was a given, however, that the basement kitchen—officially dubbed as "The Cave" for the day—was where the men were currently "holding court," as Marjorie put it. It became very obvious to Harry that everyone present was used to this sort of arrangement—the women would not break the sanctity of The Cave, but would mingle with everyone else in the neutral zones of the house. Their behavior that this was a normal sort of gathering soon rubbed off on Harry, and he felt slightly less excluded from the goings-on upstairs in the nursery.

In the kitchen, Neville was determinedly working on his goal of becoming stone drunk, and the endeavor was progressing admirably. However, it wasn't long before he failed spectacularly in hiding a particularly debilitating cramp, actually sliding out of his chair to moan in agony on the floor. Once the laughter had died down, one of Neville's colleagues shook his head, chuckling. "Why didn't you tell me we'd need a Severance potion in the first place?" the tall wizard asked Harry as he drew a flask from within his robes. "It's really a simple brew, but now we've got to sober him up first so he can take it. Doesn't react well with alcohol."

"He told me not to tell anyone," Harry said sheepishly. "And the midwife didn't say there was anything that could stop it."

The tall wizard snorted. "I expect she thought it was amusing. There you are, Longbottom, l'chaim." Neville looked blearily at the flask, then tossed it back. He retched after he did so, shuddering.

"That's _foul_!" he said, screwing up his face. At the table, George and Charlie laughed uproariously. "Seriously, Tobias, did you brew that to be as disgusting as you could? It was like Vegemite and castor oil had an ugly child. That they beat."

"A Sobering Draft tastes different depending on the hour of the day," Tobias said loftily. "Had you taken it at midnight, you'd find it rather delicious. Now if you'll excuse me for half an hour, I've got a Sympathetic Severing potion that I think I need to go brew. Drink at least a pint of water while I'm gone, two would be better. Potter, if I may use your Floo powder?"

"Of course," Harry said graciously, ignoring Neville's dirty look as Tobias departed—back to his office at Hogwarts, Harry suspected, by way of the fireplace in the Great Hall.

"Come off it," Mr. Weasley said to Neville, offering him a hand to help him off the floor. "I needed a Severing potion myself, when Molly had Bill."

"You did?" Neville asked, looking slightly less mortified.

"You've never actually been to one of these parties before, have you?" Bill asked from his perch on top of the kitchen counter. Neville and Harry both shook their heads. "Someone nearly always needs one. I'm surprised there wasn't one ready to go, they're standard fare at about one of three of the ones I've been to—though it's not usually noised about."

Neville looked slightly more relaxed, though he grimaced as he put his hand over his stomach again. Harry rubbed his back, still unable to completely shake the feeling of being out of place.

"Anyway, Harry, as I was saying, before Neville so rudely interrupted us with his theatrics," Ron said, throwing a jocular look at Neville, who mouthed "twit" at him, "You've no idea how lucky you are to be having a son, I don't know what I'm going to do with a daughter—pull all my hair out, I reckon—"

"Girls aren't so bad," Bill interjected. "At least yours won't be part veela."

"Yeah," Ron said, looking suddenly happier, "There is that."

"How soon you going to have him on a broomstick?" Charlie asked with a grin. "Six months?"

"I figure he should probably start walking first," Harry responded with an answering smile. "Don't want him all bowlegged."

Conversation continued, much of it directed at Harry, each question driving home the reality that in a few hours, he was actually going to be a father, responsible for a living, breathing child. Warm pride took turns with cold terror in his chest. He checked his watch frequently; Ginny had said several hours. How many hours was that?

"Oh, we'll probably be here for another three or four hours at least," Mr. Weasley said, and Harry realized he'd asked the question aloud.

"That long?" Harry asked, astonished. Mr. Weasley nodded.

"Not nearly as long as it takes Muggles, at least that's what I remember our midwife assuring us. But start to finish, Molly's first time in labor was...six, seven hours?"

Neville boggled. "Six or seven hours, feeling like this?" He gestured at his stomach. Bill laughed.

"Feeling mighty worse than that, I imagine. There's also the logistics of getting a Quaffle through a cocktail straw."

Neville paled. "Why haven't women taken over the world already?" he asked, to general laughter.

Presently, the flames in the fireplace leaped and glowed green again, and Tobias stepped out with a bulbous flask of a clear bubbling liquid that appeared to be emitting blue steam.

"To your good health," he said, pulling out the cork and handing it to Neville. "Should sever the sympathetic link in a snap." Neville took the flask and looked blankly at it, seemingly unaware that everyone in the room was staring at him. "Bottoms up, Neville," Tobias said after a few moments. "I've managed to get rid of the side effect that makes you want to bawl uncontrollably, but at the cost of it tasting more and more like rancid pumpkin juice for every minute it's allowed to age after decanting."

"I...don't know that I actually want to," Neville said in a low voice that, had the kitchen not been more or less silent, would have carried to Harry's ears only.

"Are you serious?" Harry asked, his voice pitched low as Neville's, but still fairly clearly heard around the kitchen. "Not five minutes ago you were wishing for death."

"I know," Neville said shooting a glance around the kitchen. Everyone was studiously not looking at them, but apparently could not think of anything to say to cover the fact that they were listening to the murmured conversation. As though aware that being quiet would not stop the others hearing, he returned to a more normal voice. "But...it makes me feel..." he shrugged. "Involved. Like I'm a part of things. Like..." he flushed, very slightly. "Like he's my son too. Ridiculous as it sounds." He glanced around again. "Everyone keeps talking to _you_ about how _you're_ going to raise him, and I'm more or less ignored. Makes me feel like some sort of hanger-on."

Harry blinked. He hadn't considered that. "Neville..." he said, somewhat awkwardly. "You're going to be my husband, as crazy as it still is to hear myself say it. That makes him your son, whether or not you put up with your insides twisting themselves in knots. And...I don't know, maybe everyone else just doesn't understand that you're going to be doing just as much as I am to bring him up." He almost involuntarily glanced about, registering the expressions of chagrin and embarrassment on the faces of the people gathered there. "We are a little unconventional, you know. Loads of people don't know how to react to us." He looked down at the flask. "Taking that doesn't make you any less involved. I promise. Just a whole lot more comfortable for the next several hours."

Neville offered a small smile, then jumped as Ron patted him awkwardly on the shoulder; neither he nor Harry had noticed him approach. "I'm sorry, mate," he offered. "I didn't realize...but it's obvious, yeah? I mean, you and Harry have always done everything together. Of course you'd raise his...your...son together."

"That kid is going to be seriously messed up," George commented from the table.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked hotly as Neville's eyebrows drew together in anger.

"He's got two of the most stereotypically Gryffindor blokes I know for dads. One of them killed Voldemort, one of them sliced the head off a great bloody snake _while he was on fire_. There's nothing for it. James is going to think he's bloody invincible." He took a swig of butterbeer. "Why, what did you think I meant?" He winked outrageously, and Harry couldn't help but smile.

Neville brought the flask up to eye level. "Cheers, I suppose," he said, and tossed back its contents. A split second later his eyes bulged, he dropped the flask with a tinkle on the stone kitchen floor and both hands went to his mouth.

"Neville!" Harry exclaimed, but Neville waved him off, looking slightly green.

" _Reparo_ ," Tobias said somewhat lazily, and the shards of the crystal flask leapt back together and into his hand.

Neville swallowed and shuddered. "When am I going to learn to never drink anything you've given me, Tobias?"

Tobias shrugged as the tension in the kitchen melted into laughter. "I told you to drink it straight away, but you had to be all dramatic and sentimental first."

"I take it you're the Potions Master, then?" Bill asked.

"Oh," Neville said. "I forgot introductions. Um, everybody, this is Professor Tobias Caine, my colleague at Hogwarts. Been there...two years now?" He looked questioningly at Tobias.

"Right," Tobias said. "Neville, Magnolia Rivers, and I are the youngest professors at Hogwarts. Mags said she'd be over after her third years finished their exams, by the by," he said as an aside to Neville. "And my wife asked if it would be proper for her to come. Muggle-born, you know—doesn't understand this whole party thing—"

"'Course it'll be proper. Supposed to be everybody the parents know, right?"

"Wait," Harry interrupted. "I know a lot of people. And Ginny's family is huge. Are you saying they're all going to come, too?"

Neville shrugged. "They'll probably stop by, if they know the birth's today, or they'll send an owl. We've got the space for quite a lot of people, especially if we open up the sitting room and the drawing room."

Harry stared. "We haven't been in the sitting room since we changed the carpets. It probably smells like old shoes."

"It did. I fixed it." Neville laughed at Harry's expression. "Ginny and I knew you were clueless as to how these things worked. Don't worry, Harry, we took care of everything. We're bloody lucky you inherited such a big house. There's probably already tons more people upstairs."

"But—we haven't been there to greet them—"

"I know, Gran has." Harry goggled at this response. Mr. Weasley laid a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Harry," he said gently, "You've got quite enough to be getting on with. Maybe you could just trust that Neville's thought of everything and go with it?"

"Yeah, business as usual," Neville said with a broad grin. "Though, now that you mention it—we probably should go upstairs at some point and say hello..."

* * *

Many more people had in fact arrived in the two hours Harry and Neville had been closeted in the kitchen. Harry couldn't actually remember knowing this many people all at one time in his life. The seldom-used drawing and sitting rooms had been opened after the living room had filled with people; even the hallway leading from the foyer to the stairs for the kitchen housed clumps of people. All of them gave a little shout of greeting as Harry started coming up the stairs. Harry found himself cornered by coworkers and old school friends and distant Weasleys he hadn't seen since Bill and Fleur's wedding every time he tried to take a step. They had all brought food, heaps of it, and had taken it upon themselves to organize a spread on the dining room table. The congeniality and sense of community was almost overwhelming, even if some of the Weasleys weren't quite sure how to react to Neville, who was nevertheless a tremendously good sport about the whole thing.

It was a quarter past four when Augusta Longbottom, brandishing a cocktail sausage on a toothpick and saying something about boutonnieres (Harry wasn't quite sure what a boutonniere was but apparently they were a terribly important part of wedding planning) turned her head mid-sentence in response to a hand on her shoulder, laid there by Mrs. Weasley.

"If you can excuse Harry and Neville for a moment," she said in a quiet, tired voice, "There's someone upstairs I'm sure they'd like to meet."

For a moment Harry didn't realize what she was saying; had another relative dropped in? Then he realized that Mrs. Weasley had been in the nursery all day, and if she was downstairs now—

His heart did a somersault as his breath caught in his throat. Mrs. Weasley smiled and patted him on the upper arm.

"Calm down now, dear. Come along. Everyone will pretend to ignore you, they all know they're not supposed to react to the new baby until you bring him downstairs..."

In a daze, Harry gripped Neville's hand tightly and followed Mrs. Weasley up the stairs, his heart pounding in his ears. As they passed his bedroom, Harry suddenly remembered something.

"Just a moment—one second—" He ducked into the bedroom, leaving Neville and Mrs. Weasley somewhat confused on the landing.

Ginny's birth coin was in its velvet bag at the bottom of his nightstand drawer, just where he'd left it. He pulled out his wand; what was the incantation he was supposed to use? Oh, yes—" _Sculpta natalis_ ," he murmured, tapping the blank side of the coin. Glowing white lines spiderwebbed from where his wand touched, then settled into the metal in a coat of arms he only vaguely recognized, around which read "James Sirius Potter, 17 June 2005."

Closing his hand around it, he plunged it into the breast pocket of his robes and emerged from the bedroom. "Okay. I'm ready."

* * *

Mrs. Weasley pushed open the door to the nursery, and as though by magnetism, Harry's eyes fell immediately on Ginny, looking exhausted but happy, sitting in a rocking chair cradling a very small bundle wrapped in a white blanket.

Feeling as though he were moving underwater, he approached her, Neville trailing slightly behind, and as though someone else were driving, held out his arms as the midwife lifted the bundle from Ginny's arms and placed it into Harry's.

He was very small, and very red, with downy black hair feathering his head under the blue knit cap and a button nose and tiny, tiny fingernails on the hand that had escaped the swaddling. Harry couldn't breathe for a moment as the bundle squirmed, James made a tiny noise, and opened his eyes just slightly for one instant before settling back into stillness.

He couldn't think of any words to say. At the moment, speech was beyond him anyway, was as easy to reach as the moon as he gazed down at his son. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he fully comprehended the power of the love that had prompted his mother to die for him. He was bursting with it, his hand trembling with it as he lightly ran a finger across the tiny pink cheek.

He managed to tear his eyes away to look at Ginny, who smiled at him tiredly, but with immense satisfaction. "Did I do a good job?" she asked somewhat weakly.

"Yeah," Harry struggled to say, looking back at James in wonder. "We make fantastic babies, apparently."

"I'm inclined to agree." She smiled again. "Neville's far too polite to say, but I think he's going to explode if he doesn't get his turn."

Harry looked over in surprise; he'd forgotten that there was anyone else in the room but himself, Ginny, and James. He carefully relinquished the bundle that was his son, laying him in Neville's arms, was surprised and pleased to find that there was not the least feeling of regret or anxiety in doing so.

"Hello there," Neville whispered, eyes shining with tears. Harry surreptitiously knuckled away his own, then knelt down next to the rocking chair.

"I have something for you," he said to her, reaching into his breast pocket. "Your dad gave it to me, to give to you today." He reached out for her hand, opened it, and laid the coin in her palm. Ginny smiled through the tear that ran unchecked down her cheek.

"And I've something for you, too," she said, reaching into the pocket of her own dressing gown and pulling out a coin. Gold, rather than silver, and Harry's breath caught when he saw it; the last time he'd seen this coin, it had been when he'd tucked it into the back of the hollow behind the portrait in the drawing room, and had been blank on one side, and he'd had no idea what it was for.

"I gave it to her," came Neville's voice from behind him; he twisted around, stunned. "I thought...well...it's what your parents would have done."

Harry didn't trust himself to speak, gazed instead at the coin in his hand. There was that naggingly familiar coat of arms, on both sides—the Potter coat of arms? And there, on one side, his name...had his father engraved this, nearly twenty-five years ago?

Too full of emotion to do anything other than tuck it safely deep within one of his inner pockets of his robes, he automatically took James back as Neville carefully set him in his arms. He could not stop the smile spreading, now that the initial shock of the weight of his son in his arms had worn off; he felt as though he could very well float away.

"And Neville," Ginny said, a slight catch in her voice. "I've...I've got something for you, too."

"What?" Neville asked, mystified, as he came closer to Ginny's chair. Harry wrenched his eyes away from James's face to watch, bewildered, as Ginny drew yet another coin from her opposite pocket. Neville's jaw dropped slightly, his eyes growing wide in astonishment.

"Your grandmother gave it to me. Just a few hours ago."

Neville's birth coin was also gold, of a rosier color than Harry's, a different coat of arms on the one side and with vines instead of scrollwork. Neville took a deep breath as he stared at it, turning it over in his hand to look at both sides, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I didn't know she had it," he said in a thick voice. "And...I didn't think she'd give it to you if she had. She's...very traditional."

"She told me that the world is changing, and if traditions don't change along with it, they fall by the wayside." Ginny reached out and closed Neville's hand over the coin. "Officially, he's your godson. But in every other way that matters..." Neville's brows knit together and he nodded, reaching into his own robes to stow the coin safely away.

Harry became aware of sniffling in the room, looked around in bewilderment to see the women who had attended James's birth patting at their faces with handkerchiefs or wiping tears from their faces. Not quite sure he was currently capable of facing the enormity of the moment, how significant it must be to Neville, he looked back into James's face, intently studying the curves and wrinkles of the cheeks and chin and eyelids.

"Harry," the midwife said gently, "If you'd like to give James back to Ginny for just a moment, there's one more thing you need to do before you take him downstairs to show off." She held up a coin, blank on both sides, mostly silver in color but with a definite gold tinge.

"I thought it appropriate," Ginny said, smiling slightly as Harry laid James reverently back in her arms. "As my coin's silver." Harry nodded wordlessly as he reached for his wand and took the blank coin.

" _Sculpta natalis_ ," he murmured once again, and again the white lines glided out from the tip of his wand to curl up on the metal and become a part of it. It felt very warm in his hand.

"And now," Ginny said, handing James carefully back to Harry, "You get to take him downstairs and introduce the family to him. If I know them, they're all clustered in the foyer in a dither because we're taking so long."

Harry smiled, ensured he had a good grip on the bundle that was his son, and shot a glance at Neville.

"You're coming too, right?"

"Uh..." Neville glanced around at the assembled group.

"Of course he is," Ginny said. "We get to make our own rules now."

A small smile lit on Neville's face, and he put his arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Let's go, then."

* * *

Harry could hear the voices hush as he stepped on the last stair leading from the third floor to the second; as soon as he rounded the corner he'd be visible from the entry hall. He looked to the side to Neville for reassurance, down at his son who slumbered in contentment in his arms, and took the final step.

As he rounded the corner, he saw that Ginny's prediction was indeed correct; somehow the entire population of the house had squeezed into every possible space to see his emergence from the nursery with the newborn, packed tightly together in the entryway of the house.

Harry cleared his throat. "Hi," he said, with a slightly bashful grin. "I've got someone I'd like you all to meet." With one hand, he awkwardly pushed the blanket back so that James's head was visible. "This is my son, James Sirius Potter. I know it's a little early to tell, but I think he's got some great potential."

Quiet cries of jubilation sounded, muffled applause and cheers came from every direction as revelry designed to not wake a sleeping infant broke out. Harry felt Neville squeeze him around the shoulders, and despite the crowds' best efforts, James squirmed and yawned, opening dark brown eyes that stared, unfocused, at Harry for a long moment before closing once more as his face screwed up and he began to cry.

"Oh," Harry said as the crowd began to laugh. "I, uh, suppose I'd better get used to this."


	11. Chapter 11

Harry groaned as the doorbell rang. He'd _just_ laid down on the couch to rest for a few moments while James took one of his five-minute naps he tended toward at irregular intervals. And now, yes, he was up and crying again.

Cradling the crying and squirming James against his shoulder, Harry opened the front door, and then wished he wasn't wearing lounge clothes and had combed his hair sometime in the last three days. "Sir," he said, running his free hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself appear at least slightly presentable.

"Potter," Jameson said, looking impeccable as always in his Ministry robes. A hint of a smirk shadowed across his face. "Bad time?"

"Um," Harry said, his mind racing as he bounced James in a vain effort to quiet him. "I don't think there are any really good times lately. Now's as good as any. Would you like to come in?" Thank god Neville kept up the cleaning, no matter how zombified lack of sleep made him. Harry almost considered bringing Kreacher back from Hogwarts for the summer so Neville, always a light sleeper at the best of times, could spend his spare time sleeping instead of tidying.

"Thank you. If it's not too much trouble." Jameson stepped inside and Harry led him to the living room, decorum the only thing keeping him from plunking down into a chair before his boss.

"Can I get you a coffee or anything?" he asked, trying very hard to cover the note of desperation gripping his throat. Jameson chuckled.

"Potter, you've got a one-month-old infant demanding every active brain cell you have. I assure you, you do not have to pretend to be a good host. I have four of my own, you know. I know exactly what it's like."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said gratefully, sitting down. "Ginny's at the market and Neville is sleeping, otherwise I'd hand him off..." he sighed as James hiccoughed and, having startled himself, began wailing again. "Do they ever stop crying?" he asked plaintively, feeling a bit wild around the eyes.

"Yes. And then you start dreaming that they're crying."

Harry stared. "Please tell me you're taking the mickey." In his dismay, he'd stopping the bouncing motion, and James increased his volume to let Harry know just what he thought about that.

"I'm here to bring you some unfortunate news," Jameson said, changing the subject briskly. "I'm afraid I have to take you off the Dark Objects case."

Harry stared blankly. "But, sir—I had a leave of absence—"

"Oh, it's nothing to do with that," Jameson assured him. "I was most satisfied with your progress on it. No, certain things have become clear over the last few weeks...it appears as though the entire situation was constructed to lure you into investigating it. When one of my men is targeted like that, it is my responsibility to ensure that it doesn't get anywhere. It would not only not be inappropriate to keep you assigned to the case, but also imprudent. Investigating the new evidence, it's almost as though there's a signpost that blinks 'COME HERE, POTTER' in great neon letters. To what purpose, I've no idea, and we're not going to poke that particular hornet's nest." He grimaced slightly, whether at the news he was imparting or a particularly shrill cry from James, it was difficult to tell. "I'm sorry to have to do it. As I said, I was most pleased with your progress. Willoughby is good, but he's much more...methodical. He doesn't go with his gut, like you do, and so he misses a great deal of opportunities. I imagine this case will stretch for quite a long time now."

"Why me?" Harry asked blankly.

"Why? I suppose because you're a very high-profile Auror. You did manage to kill the Dark Lord, after all...even in training helped put a dozen Death Eaters away...I imagine capturing or otherwise besting you would be a great morale-booster to those Dark witches and wizards who have remained elusive."

"And how are they luring me specifically? Couldn't it be any Auror on the case?"

"No," Jameson said flatly. "It's you. Were I not very familiar with your background, I may not have even recognized them as taunts. And because I know they are taunts, and because I am familiar with your background and how well you respond to taunts, I've determined that you are not to be told what the taunts are."

"Seriously?" Harry blurted. "I'm not a teenager anymore, I know how to handle—"

"I don't doubt your ability to handle it. The fact of the matter is, the case has become personal. I don't let any of my men work on a personal case. Understood?"

Harry sighed. "Yes, sir." At least James had finally receded into whimpers.

"Good. Much as I'd like this to become a social call, I have to return to the office. Good luck with your tadpole. I'll see you in three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Harry asked, startled. "My leave isn't up for another month and a half."

"Your wedding, Potter. You forget already?" Jameson offered a wry grin as Harry's mouth dropped. "I'd advise you to fix the date firmly in your mind. Neville's a good fellow, but I don't think he'd much appreciate being left at the altar." He stood, brushing wrinkles out of his robes. "I can let myself out. Have a good day."

* * *

The sun was, thankfully, shining. Ginny of all people had been fretting about it for a week, as though it really mattered whether it was sunny or raining when there was a marquee the size of a small village for them to be under. Harry was relieved to see that the number of chairs was definitely only in the double digits; the number was still rather larger than he or Neville had particularly wanted, but it was not the guest list two feet of parchment long that Augusta had originally put forward.

Ginny fussed with his boutonniere, which wasn't pinned perfectly straight to his lapel, until Harry was fairly certain she was going to decapitate it. "Get off, Ginny," he said finally, waving her away. "It's fine. Who has got James?"

"Mum does," Ginny said, her hands twitching as the boutonniere shifted ever so slightly back to the left again. "I expect I'll go feed him again in a few minutes, before the ceremony starts...are you nervous?"

"Nervous? Why would I be nervous?" Harry looked at her, confused. "We've wanted to do this for years. What's there to be nervous about? And what is that reporter doing here?" he asked, more sharply, as he recognized a reporter from the Daily Prophet taking a seat in one of the back rows. "I said no reporters."

"Would you rather a reporter get the story right or a can't-be-arsed 'speculative journalist' making up lies for some unscrupulous rag?" Augusta's voice asked behind him. Harry spun, mouth open, but she talked right over him, as usual. "This is a big event, the two heroes of the war finally marrying. I won't have your name or my grandson's besmirched in order to sell papers." She patted him on the shoulder, wrinkled her brow in an expression so much like Neville's that Harry almost laughed, and brought out her wand and tapped his boutonniere, which immediately straightened smartly. "I know this reporter. She has integrity. She'll do the ceremony justice and give it proper gravity."

Harry puffed out a sigh, not willing to admit that this solution probably was better than the alternative. Like it or not, he and Neville were fairly public figures, and a huge event like this—the first high-profile marriage between two wizards—was not going to go unremarked.

Ginny laid a hand on Harry's arm. "I'm going to go feed James," she said softly. "I'll be back."

"Sure," Harry said, squeezing her hand before she slipped out of the room. Augusta watched her go.

"Sweet girl," she commented, then turned her sharp gaze to Harry. "Are you still...keeping company with her?"

"What? No. I mean, she lives with us, but...no. Not like you're, um, asking." Harry felt a flush creep up his neck. What kind of question was that to ask on a bloke's wedding day?

Augusta nodded briskly. "I thought it was something like that, but I wanted to be sure." She looked Harry up and down appraisingly. "I suppose you'll do," she said, a smile belying her grudging tone. "I can't say I expected things to be this way, but I do have to say that Neville chose quite wisely." She gave his shoulder one more pat. "I'll see you up the opposite aisle, Harry. You have your vows? And the ring?" Harry nodded, patting his breast pocket. Augusta gave one more nod and left the room, presumably to go to Neville's.

A knock sounded at the door, and Ron slipped in. Harry grinned. "All right, Ron?" he asked.

"Harry," Ron responded, slapping him on the back. "Did you seriously just buy the same dress robes again in a different size?"

"What's wrong with these?" Harry asked, looking down at them. "I like them."

"Never mind." Ron lowered himself onto one of the beds. "So this is it, huh? Tying the knot for good?"

"The knot's been well and truly tied for some time now," Harry pointed out. "We're just going to go make sure that—how many chairs?—eighty-four people also know it's tied. And everyone who reads the Social section of the Prophet, I suppose."

"Social section? Nah, this'll be front page, you'll see," Ron said. Harry stared.

"Is it really that big of a deal?"

"Are you serious? Of course it's a big deal. Everyone in England's been waiting for it ever since you snogged Neville in front of the whole school in the Great Hall. Even Malfoy's sent you a wedding present—but, er, I wouldn't open it myself, were I you. Just to be prudent."

Harry walked over to the window and looked down at the lawn, where the marquee stood over the chairs that circled the round podium in the middle, broken into thirds to make three aisles. Very shortly, he was going to be walking down one of them. "Well, I'm nervous now," he said, mostly to himself.

"No need to be, mate," Ron said, clapping Harry heartily on the back. "All you have to do is read off a little card and say 'I do' at the right time. And not trip, I suppose."

Another knock sounded at the door, and Harry turned away from the window as Mrs. Weasley bustled into the room. "Harry, dear," she said, giving him a warm hug. "How are you holding up?"

"Everyone keeps acting like this is something I should be nervous about," Harry said, somewhat bewildered. "Or that I should be dreading."

"Not dreading, of course not dreading, but...yes, a bit of nerves would be normal," Mrs. Weasley assured him.

"Well, I'm fine," Harry insisted, although now a tiny tendril of nerves seemed to curl up in the pit of his belly and twitch.

"Well, that's good," Mrs. Weasley said, pulling a comb from seemingly nowhere and attacking his head. Smiling slightly, he let her attempt to make his hair lie flat, a battle she'd been waging for years.

"By the way," he said, wincing as she dragged the comb across the tip of his ear, "Thank you. For letting us use your home."

"Of course," Mrs. Weasley answered distractedly. "Not much room at Grimmauld Place, and the Longbottom Estate is mostly woods, after all, no room for a ceremony. Oh, Merlin's beard, I thought your hair might outgrow this stubbornness."

"No chance of that," he said with a grin. "I haven't, after all."

"Well, there is that," Mrs. Weasley said fondly. She patted him on the cheek. "It's just about time, dear. Are you ready?"

Harry looked out the window again, at the gathering guests, the musicians tuning their instruments. "Yeah. I'm ready."

* * *

Ginny squeezed his arm as she took it, her hand shaking slightly. Harry offered a half smile.

"I think you're more nervous than I am," he said.

"You're not wrong," Ginny said. She glanced over at Ron as he took his place at Harry's other side, flanking him. Ron offered a single nod.

"The music's started," he said, jerking his head toward the flap of the marquee they were to enter through. "You know the cue?"

Harry nodded, a flame of anticipation licking at his chest. Ron linked arms with him, and there—right there, the cello—

Ginny and Ron reached out, opened the flaps, and Harry stepped through with them.

At precisely the same moment, Neville, his grandmother and Hermione on either arm, entered on the other side of the tent across from him. He caught Harry's eye and a shy grin, a grin like when they had first begun getting used to each other, spread across his face. Harry felt an answering grin take over his own lips as well, felt almost as bashful as after that first kiss they'd shared so long ago.

They stepped up to the podium, dropping arms with their attendants, who stood back along the aisles they had just come down. Harry gazed slightly up into Neville's eyes, a slight flush coming to his cheeks as Neville licked his lips and glanced to McGonagall, who had cast off her normal ugly tartan robes in favor of deep, unrelieved black velvet. The music reached a crescendo and faded away, leaving the tent in silence.

"Today is a continuation, a new chapter in the lives of Harry and Neville," McGonagall began. "And yet, it is also a beginning, because life is full of new beginnings.

"I watched, from afar, at the very first beginnings of Harry and Neville's relationship. They were, at the very start, friends—inseparable, and, rather more often than I would care to admit, in trouble." Harry and Neville both smirked as a chuckle rippled through the guests. "Those who knew them best were not surprised when, at last, they found one another, though some were surprised it took as long as it did. Many of those people are gathered around today, to witness something else that should also not come as a surprise, as Harry and Neville share vows that will Bond them together in marriage.

"I could continue, with the standard speech about what marriage means, but I trust that you two have had enough of my lectures by this point, am I correct?" She exchanged a wry glance with both of them as they grinned in response. "At any rate, I know that you both have already prepared words of your own as to what this marriage means, and those words are far more powerful than anything I could recite from a book. Neville, we shall begin with you."

Neville licked his lips as he pulled a bit of parchment from his pocket and unfolded it. First, he turned slightly, addressing the crowd gathered around them on all sides. "Understand, first, that I'm a Herbologist," he said, with a sheepish grin. "I have to be very careful when I present my data. You could say this is a sort of a peer review of my work up to this point, and so I need to be rather exact." Harry could see Professor Sprout chuckling and shaking her head before Neville turned back to him, and everyone else seemed to vanish as Neville looked deeply into his eyes before looking down at the parchment. "Harry," he read, glancing up often as he scanned the words. "Thirteen years, eleven months, and five days ago, I laid eyes on you for the first time. I had no idea that at some point in the next seven years—the data is unclear—I'd fall madly, desperately in love with the boy in front of me on the train.

"Seven years, three months, and three days ago, we finally made that love known—to one another, and to ourselves. And to some surprised onlookers who, according to McGonagall, weren't that surprised at all. I dunno, I think Ron was, don't you?" Harry laughed, twisting around to look at Ron, who waved once in embarrassment.

"Nine months and twenty-two days ago, I learned that love doesn't always feel good. I learned that sometimes, it hurts, and sometimes, you can do the wrong thing because it hurts. But over the next three months and twelve days, I learned that just because love hurts doesn't mean it's wrong, and just because it feels like there's nowhere left to go doesn't mean the love's gone. And so, I made some adjustments to my previous theory and, six months and nine days ago, you and I once again became one, and the world was right again.

"Exactly ninety-two days ago, an opportunity arose, an opportunity that had previously been unattainable. On that day, I asked you if you would share the rest of your life with me, to be my husband, to let me give you every tomorrow that I have to give.

"I apologize now, because I have insufficient data to extrapolate the precise number of tomorrows that we will spend together. But, if the inexactness doesn't bother you...I hope that 'forever' will be sufficient."

Harry swallowed; there was a lump in his throat that threatened to turn to tears the moment he tried to say anything. "How come he got to go first?" he asked. "Now I'm a mess." The friends and family around them laughed as he knuckled away a tear before it could fall and took a few deep breaths to compose himself before taking his own folded bit of parchment from his pocket. He cleared his throat, suddenly quite nervous. "In the past, you've accused me of being overly dramatic. I'll admit that I do have that tendency. But if there is a time and place for drama, it's wedding vows, and I'm going to play it up for all it's worth.

"Neville, you've been in my life for fourteen years. For all of that, I've had the utmost privilege and honor of calling you my best friend. But I do know the exact moment I fell in love with you, even if I didn't admit it to myself until much later.

"We were in a long-unused bedroom, the one that's now ours at Twelve Grimmauld Place. I'd just spent entirely too long yelling at you, and you—well, you'd punched me in the face to shut me up." Neville bit back his smile as everyone laughed. "And then you reached out and pulled me off the floor, and you hugged me. And it was right then—in your arms, face developing a lovely bruise—that I truly fell in love with you.

"And then we took _so long_. I'd say you have no idea what it was like, looking at you and feeling that odd little twinge in my chest, denying what it was. Having to catch my breath every time I caught your eye. And every day, trying to tell myself it was something else. Well, I would say you have no idea, but I know that you, of all people, understand exactly what it was like. You understand me like nobody else can. And you know exactly what it was like when you realized what it really was. I don't know when it happened for you, but for me..." Harry paused, reached into his pocket, and pulled out another folded piece of parchment. He waggled his eyebrows. "I told you I was going to play it up," he said. This time Neville openly laughed. God, that _smile_. He'd do anything for that smile.

"I'd been without you for months. I didn't know if you were still alive. I was exhausted, and lonely, and terrified, and there was a night ahead of me that I wasn't sure I was going to survive. And then...you. You stepped out from behind that portrait, and everything just snapped into place. And suddenly, I had even more reason to live through the night than I did before. We both did huge things that night, things that changed us forever—but in the end, the greatest victory was to finally have you hold me and be able to live together on something other than borrowed time.

"The past seven years have been more special to me than I could put down on paper, and I tried for a very long time. But words just aren't enough, and really...that's okay. Because you're the only one who can look inside my heart and see exactly what you mean to me. Anyone else can only guess, and they'll probably come close, but you...I can never tell you how much you mean to me, and I don't have to. You know. You know that everything I am is yours, that you're my heart and soul and everything to me."

He swallowed, took another deep breath to steady himself. He could hear someone sniffling behind him—Ginny, probably. "We're standing here together, about to commit our lives to each other, but I've been standing with you for fourteen years, and I promise, here and now, that I will stand with you forever."

Silence rang through the tent, broken by quiet sniffles on all sides. Neville and Harry shared a long look that spoke volumes more than what they had just said, and Harry felt warmth suffuse his entire body.

"Better and more poignantly said than anything I could have possibly come up with," McGonagall said finally, and even her voice was somewhat shaky. The silence changed from celebratory to attentive once more. "There is much symbolism that surrounds marriage, but perhaps the most immediately recognizable is the exchange of wedding rings. Neville and Harry have both told me that the rings they are using hold an even deeper meaning than usual; the bands they are about to exchange as a symbol of their love once belonged to their fathers, neither of whom could be here today." Harry looked up in surprise at Neville; he hadn't told Harry that he was going to be using his father's ring, too. A little half-smile said, quite plainly, that Neville had intended it to be a surprise. "Neville, if you would place your ring on Harry's left hand." Neville reached out to take Harry's hand; both of them were trembling slightly, not from nerves, but from holding back the flood of emotion that threatened to drown them both. He slid the gold band onto Harry's ring finger, pushing slightly to get it over the knuckle. Harry almost sighed with relief as the band slid into place; he'd not been wearing the engagement ring all morning and his hand had felt oddly naked. "And Harry, if you would place your ring on Neville's left hand." Harry fumbled a bit as he drew the ring from his pocket, placed it carefully on Neville's finger. It was slightly large; oh well. That could be fixed later.

McGonagall smiled and drew her wand. "And now, please join your left hands, the hands closest to your hearts, for the Bonding."

Neville grasped Harry's left hand tightly, twitching up the sleeve of his dress robe as Harry did the same. Both took a deep breath simultaneously and looked at each other expectantly, completely unable to wipe the smiles from their faces.

A miniscule globe of golden light wafted around their clasped hands like a tiny hummingbird as McGonagall gestured over their hands with the tip of her wand. "Harry and Neville, will you take vows here before all of us which will manifest the symbolic vows you have already made and will continue to make to each other throughout your lives?"

"We will," they said together.

"Do you, Neville, take Harry as your friend, love, and husband, beside him and apart from him, in laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility, asking that he be no other than himself, loving what you know of him, trusting what you do not yet know, in all the ways that life may find you?"

Neville licked his lips. "I do," he said seriously. A tiny chime emitted from the golden light and a wispy thread of finest shining gold wrapped around their hands. It felt like the warmth of an embrace, and Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"And do you, Harry, take Neville as your friend, love, and husband, beside him and apart from him, in laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility, asking that he be no other than himself, loving what you know of him, trusting what you do not yet know, in all the ways that life may find you?"

"I do," Harry said, a great feeling of elation bursting in his chest, and again the light chimed, another wisp of golden silk wrapping about their hands warmly. The globe of light paused above their hands, pulsing slightly in time with Harry's heart—and Neville's, he realized, feeling it through the grip, beating in time with his own.

"All gathered," McGonagall said, raising her eyes to address the friends and family surrounding them. "Do you bear witness to this Bonding, as vows of marriage are made manifest, to become inseparable from blood and bone and life and love?"

"We do," the people around them murmured. The golden light pulsed very brightly and held, a tiny sun that then raced along the twined threads around their clasped hands, consuming them faster than the eye could follow, leaving a glowing afterimage in Harry's vision before flying to the roof of the tent and exploding into thousands of dancing golden sparks.

"May this couple, just Bonded in matrimony, draw strength from their agreement. Understanding, even in moments of despair, the virtues found in each other. Solace under fire, encouragement when life becomes a trial, sharing one another's joy and pain. Welcoming life's mysteries through the optimism found in their love. Growing wise instead of old, accepting the unwanted stranger that no one knows. Sharing today's inspiration, beyond the present, may this union only add to the goodness and joy of life." McGonagall smiled warmly. "I pronounce this Bonding complete. All gathered, please rise and join me in celebrating Harry and Neville's first kiss under their Bond of Matrimony."

The crowd leapt to their feet, some applauding, others shooting sparks into the air jubilantly, all cheering as Neville drew Harry to him and Harry reached up to pull Neville's head down, bringing their lips together in the most triumphant kiss they'd ever shared.

And it was...different. Harry couldn't put his finger on it, but he was somehow more aware of Neville, more invested in the kiss and in the embrace than he'd ever been before, more sensitive to Neville's myriad reactions to his touch. It was as though a thin curtain he'd never known was between them had suddenly been raised. As they separated, Harry looked into Neville's eyes, saw that he mirrored Harry's own slight bemusement; it wasn't just him.

"That'll be a temporary aftereffect of the Bonding," McGonagall said in a low voice. She winked. "There's a reason we celebrate that first kiss." She put a hand on each of their shoulders, beaming at them. "Now, are you ready to take your first steps as married men?"

They both nodded, grins spreading unchecked across their faces as Neville took Harry's hand and they stepped down off the podium, walking slowly down the exit aisle to the music they barely heard, thankfully not stumbling as they gazed at each other in something close to exalted disbelief the whole way down the aisle and out of the tent. They'd done it, and nothing could ever come between them again.


	12. Chapter 12

"Sir," Earnest Willoughby said breathlessly as he barged into Jameson's office. "We found out who it is."

Jameson immediately set aside the report he'd been reading. "Yes?"

Willoughby tossed his sheaf of papers onto Jameson's desk and began to pace. "The necromancer—the real one, not the decoy from Bath—he kept going on about how it's not that simple, the shade had to have a body if it was going to get stronger, but it had to be stronger before it could take a body. He had no idea where the shade ended up disappearing to because all the people he'd possessed before, and would be able to inhabit again in his weakened state, are dead now—except for Potter."

"And except for her," Jameson said, scanning the papers with eyes that seemed to grow more tired as he went on. "Because he wouldn't remember possessing her, would he? Technically, he never did. Merlin and Godric, he must have gone around all the witches and wizards on the continent to find her..." He put the paper down and rubbed his temples. "Potter is no longer on the 'need to know' list. Potter is on the 'do not let him find out _anything_ ' list."

Willoughby looked stunned. "But...why would Potter..."

"Do as I say," Jameson snapped, then his face softened. "You're sure it's her?"

Willoughby nodded. "She's the only one it could be."

"Bloody hell," Jameson murmured, shaking his head. Then, "BLOODY HELL!" he bellowed, throwing a paperweight at the wall. Willoughby took a step back, looking frightened. Jameson stood hunched over his desk, breathing heavily, supporting himself with both arms stiffly spread on the desk in front of him.

"Assemble a hit squad. Five Aurors, twenty hit-wizards. None of them Potter's. I want Mason down from Cursed Objects and get Perkins from Magical Containment. And bring me Bale."

"Bale, sir?" Willoughby asked hesitantly. "Where is he?"

"He's an Unspeakable. It might take some time to find him."

"Yes, sir." Willoughby made to leave the office, but stopped. "Sir, if I'm assembling a hit squad...Potter is going to want to know why he's not coming. Especially on something so large-scale."

Jameson let out an explosive sigh. "Lie to him. Ignore him. _Hex_ him. _Keep him here_."

* * *

"...and he's walking now, nothing below four feet is safe anymore, you should see the house, looks like we've got flood lines..." Harry leaned forward in his chair suddenly. "Who was that shouting?"

"It sounded like Jameson," Perry said, also sitting up from his lounging position.

"Someone must have told him something he really didn't want to hear," Harry said, standing slowly. "It takes a lot to get him angry." He craned his neck to look out of the window in his door and froze. "That's Willoughby coming out of his office."

"Willoughby?" Perry asked, mirroring Harry as he came to his feet. "He's the one—"

"Who took over my case last year when it got personal. Yeah." Harry turned, brow furrowed, to look at Perry. "They won't tell me anything. Do you know if he's still on that case?"

Perry looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I..." Harry waved a hand in irritated dismissal.

"Quit hedging. You're obviously not going to tell me either." He continued watching out the window in the door, peering around the larger room outside as much as he could. "It almost looks like they're mobilizing," he said slowly. He watched for several more minutes, ignoring the way Perry was shifting uncomfortably. "They are mobilizing. And pointedly trying to keep it quiet." He turned abruptly to Perry. "The case got personal. That's why he took me off it. He wouldn't tell me how it got personal, but he said it was definitely directed at me. If they're mobilizing, and with that many people, there's something big going down." Perry was nodding slightly, though he looked completely lost. Harry began to pace in the small space left in the office. His mind was racing, now that it had got started. "If it's meant to taunt me...Perry, they could be after my family. And they're not telling me because I'd fly off the handle." A decision snapped into place in his mind and he snatched his robe from its usual spot hanging from the back of his chair.

"Hey!" Perry called as he strode purposefully from the office. Harry ignored him, his eyes glued to the exit. Amazingly, no one tried to stop him, and it wasn't until the grate had closed on the lift that he heard Jameson shout "POTTER!" He ignored that, too, except to note that it confirmed his suspicions.

He wasn't flying off the handle, he told himself as he got off the lift and walked briskly toward the Apparation point at the edge of the Ministry entry hall. He was going home to protect his family. If they—whoever _they_ were—knew him enough to taunt him in ways that only someone familiar with his background would recognize, then they knew where he lived. That meant they knew where Ginny was, and Neville, home on summer holiday, and James. And if they'd spent the last year trying to lure him to them and getting nowhere, then they might well be about to hit him where it would hurt. Going home wasn't flying off the handle. It was being smart.

"POTTER!" Jameson bellowed from the lifts, across the entry hall. People turned to stare at him, scrambling out of the way as he ran across the entry hall, wand drawn. "STAND DOWN!"

Harry set his jaw and turned on the spot, Disapparating with an almost contemptuous CRACK.

The scene in the entry hall seemed frozen, every eye on Jameson as he turned purple with the strain of not losing control.

He took a deep breath through his nose, crossed his arms over his chest, and exhaled. "Fuck," he said, in a perfectly calm tone.

Those standing around him fled.

* * *

"Neville?" Harry called as he pushed open the door. "Ginny?"

"Harry?" Ginny asked, coming out from the living room. "What are you doing home so early?"

"They didn't need me at work," Harry said in what he hoped was a casual voice. "I decided to take the rest of the day off. Where's James?"

"Neville's giving him a bath. Apparently the best way to eat jam is with one's fists." Ginny narrowed her eyes. "You never come home early unless there's an emergency."

"There's no emergency," Harry said quickly. "At least not here there isn't. Lots of emergencies at work."

Ginny adopted an expression he was much more used to seeing on her mother. "Harry, you tell me what's going on right now. Your panicked calmness isn't fooling anyone."

Neville looked over the banister of the stairs as he descended, James tucked under his arm like a Quaffle and giggling. "What are you doing home, Harry?"

"Being dodgy is what," Ginny said before Harry could say anything.

"Neville," Harry said, with a sidelong glance at Ginny. "Take James to his grandparents' house, please." Neville's face went pale as he mouthed Harry's instructions, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. "It could be nothing," he added quickly. "But—"

 _CRACK_.

Harry's hand plunged to the wand holster at his waist, but could only get his wand half-drawn before he was tackled from behind and pinned to the floor, arms yanked forcefully behind him.

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" he shouted at Neville, who had shifted James and was now holding him properly. Neville's face set in determination but as he turned, his way was blocked by three hit-wizards standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

"I said _stand down_ , Potter," came Jameson's rumbling voice from over his shoulder where he was holding him down with his full body weight.

"Harry, what's happening?" Ginny asked, her voice shrill.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " and " _Stupefy!_ " a full dozen of the hit-wizards shouted, pointing their wands at her, but—

" _Protego!_ " she snarled, deflecting the spells. The foyer was not very large, and the force of the deflection bowled over not only the hit-wizards who had cast the spell, but also the ranks behind them. At least three of them did not get back up with their comrades.

"Hold your fire!" Jameson ordered. "She's still innocent!"

"Ginny!" Harry said, twisting to try and escape the hold that Jameson had on him. "Just—give them your wand—"

"I think not," she said in a cool voice that sounded completely unlike her.

"We've got the place surrounded," Jameson said in a flat tone. "And there's an Anti-Apparition jinx so strong on the place it'll take an army to break it. Let the girl go."

"What's going on?" Neville demanded. James began to cry and Neville patted him on the back, though it looked like he rather wanted to do the same thing himself.

"Let her go," Jameson repeated. "Or we'll—"

"Or you'll do nothing," Ginny said, smirking. "I believe this is what we call a 'standoff,' gentlemen. Who is going to be the first to blink?"

Suddenly, the self-satisfied smirk slid from Ginny's face. "I don't understand!" she wailed, looking frantically around. "What's—"

" _Expelli—_ " one of the hit-wizards began, but the cold expression returned to Ginny's face and she deflected the spell almost lazily.

"That was sloppy," Jameson said quietly. "Could it be you don't have nearly as much control as you'd like?"

"Her mind is weak, and I have dominated it before," she said in a dismissive tone. "I am in complete control."

An impossible realization clunked into place in Harry's mind, and he stopped struggling for a moment with the gravity of it. " _You,_ " he gasped. Ginny glanced down at him, and the smirk definitely widened. "For _fuck's_ sake, Tom, how many times do I have to kill you?"

"Potter, if you do not stand down I will be forced to put you in holding," Jameson said in a low voice. "Don't jeopardize the situation further."

"How the hell is he—"

"We have this under control. Now I will tell you one last time or it's your badge: _stand. down_."

Ginny—who wasn't Ginny—watched this exchange with open amusement. The hit-wizards and Aurors watched Ginny intently, waiting for orders. Glancing at Neville, Harry saw that he'd managed to inch his way along the wall, shielding James with his body, and if James's lack of wailing was anything to go by, Neville had managed to pull off a Silencing charm without anyone seeing—he had not forgotten how to lay low and encourage others to overlook him. Harry grit his teeth and let his forehead drop to the ground, ceasing his struggles. Jameson let up on him very slightly, using only one knee digging into his back and arms to keep him down. That Jameson trusted him enough to avoid magically binding him was a very small comfort.

"Let the girl go," Jameson commanded.

"Or you'll kill me?" Ginny asked sardonically. "I find that difficult to believe."

"All we have to do is wait you out," Jameson pointed out. "You can't get out of here without leaving the girl. You're nothing more than a shade, and a weak one at that. I wager you'd have waited years more before trying to possess her if we hadn't forced your hand. Sooner or later, you're going to lose your grip."

"You will all be dead before that happens," Ginny said, raising her wand. The motion was mirrored by the hit-wizards and Aurors in the foyer, tension thick in the air.

"I don't think so," Jameson said, raising his own wand. "I think you're barely holding onto her. I don't think you can make her perform any magic of consequence."

Ginny's jaw set contemptuously, and she flicked her wand in a dismissive gesture. Jameson deflected the flash of red light with a reflexive shield spell, shattering a picture frame on the wall.

"Think what you wish," Ginny said smugly. "This one is no longer fighting me. She is mine."

Harry bit down on his tongue so hard he was sure it was bleeding. Rage burned in his chest, threatening to consume him, making him shake beneath Jameson's knee as it dug into his back, numbing his arms, but never had he felt so completely impotent. Even if he threw Jameson off—which he was sure he could do—what could he possibly do? Possessions were rare, he didn't know how to deal with them, couldn't think of anything to do that wouldn't hurt Ginny...

"Sir," he said in a near-whisper, almost wincing at how pathetic his tone was, "Please. Get my son out of here."

"I can't do that, Potter," Jameson said, not taking his eyes from Ginny. But he made a gesture, and the hit-wizards that had been blocking Neville's exit stepped to surround him and James—still blocking his exit, but now between him and Ginny. Jameson let up on Harry's back very slightly, and Harry understood that to mean "This is the best I can do." Another four flashes of red light shot from Ginny's wand in quick succession; shield charms sprang into being to deflect them, shattering them into sprays of sparks as they lost momentum and hit walls or other shields. She laughed, and it was the high, eerie laugh that had tormented Harry's dreams for years; hearing it in her voice made every hair on Harry's body stand on end.

Harry could feel Jameson shift his weight. "Apologies," he said. A fraction of a second too late Harry realized what it meant; Jameson was now pointing his wand at him. " _Petrificus totalus,_ " he said firmly, and had Harry been able to, he would have winced at the sudden cramp in every muscle of his body as they tightened and froze. His nose pressed into the rug, and he could only hear what was going on now, the fibers of the rug completely filling his vision save for the shoes of the hit-wizard in his periphery.

The crackling of Stunning spells tore through the room again, this time punctuated by the shattering of glass—a window? It sounded too large to be a picture frame. Jameson rose from his crouch on Harry's back. More spells flew about the room—Harry couldn't identify them, couldn't see the distinctive red glow of stunners from the corner of his eye—uselessly he tried to move something, a toe, a finger, anything—and then there was a great rushing sound and the carpet beneath his nose was green in a flash of light—

He could hear someone hit the floor, feel the floorboards vibrate with the fall. Someone over where Neville had been standing with James. Frantically, Harry redoubled his futile efforts—he had to see—

"Harry, I'm sorry," Jameson said somewhere above him. Harry's eye twitched in a half-blink at the use of his first name; he'd always only ever been Potter. A split second later the pain that had been apparent in those words slammed into place and something horrible filled his chest, something that burned and froze and expanded all at the same time as he physically ached with the need to shout—

"Take her down," Jameson commanded in a cold voice.

 _No. No, no, NO—_

Flashes of red light, blue light, purple, white—the room was illuminated in so many splashes of color it was dizzying. The hit-wizards and Aurors were shouting, Neville was shouting, James was crying again, and Harry could do nothing, nothing but breathe shallowly and more quickly, his glasses askew, his nose pressing painfully into the carpet as he felt the impacts of other people hitting the floor heavily, hear wands clatter across the floor, and feel that enormous pain expanding in his chest, begging for release, and he twitched—just slightly, just his first finger of his wand hand—

" _NO!_ "

The remaining glass in the room—windows, picture frames, a vase in the living room, the mirrors, the porcelain knobs on drawers on a table—shattered into fragments fine as sand as he erupted, his muscles screaming as he tore them from their frozen positions, launching himself drunkenly to his feet, his hand going to the wand at his waist, his mind blank with rage, his only thought to stop them hurting Ginny. _His_ Ginny, whether he and Neville had ever admitted it or not, whether she was aware of it or not, whether or not it was even possible.

One of the hit-wizards turned and shot a red Stunner at him. A slash of his own wand deflected it before he knew what he was doing; he watched the crackling beam of red light as it ricocheted across the room and hit Ginny squarely in the side of her neck, throwing her head back with a mangled scream, just before a dozen other spells found their target and hit true before she could collect herself to cast a shield.

Ginny's eyes instantly unfocused and rolled back into her head, but did not close as she toppled, oh so slowly, against the wall, sliding down it on one shoulder as her legs folded bonelessly. A fine silver smoke began to flow from her mouth, slowly at first as she did not so much exhale as simply deflate.

"BALE!" Jameson barked. A tweedy-looking wizard jumped forward, one hand brandishing a smokey gray crystal, the other his wand.

" _Vis carcer novercalis, tergiversatio phasmatis infinitio_!" the wizard intoned, very quickly, in one breath. The silver smoke began sweeping toward the crystal, fighting it like a cloud of insects flying against a breeze, gaining less and less purchase as more of it flowed reluctantly until the last wisp of smoke had disappeared and the crystal turned a solid glossy black and the wizard, breathing heavily, fell to his knees, tapping the crystal with a gesture of finality with his wand. The crystal shuddered in his hand, rang once with a note that sounded like a ghastly scream, and lay still.

Harry stood frozen, by events and disbelief rather than by magic this time, barely aware of what had just happened, his eyes glued to Ginny lying in an unnatural heap on the floor by the wall. Of their own accord, his feet began to force him toward her, and he shouldered aside a hit-wizard in his way as he dropped to his knees next to her.

Her eyes stared straight ahead into nothing as he lifted her head, oddly heavy and loose on her neck. He could see where the spell he'd deflected had burned her, he ran fingers over it lightly, pressing firmly where there should be a pulse, and maybe—there? Yes, yes...

Once...twice...it was so slow, so weak, like a butterfly's wingbeat, but it was there, it was...

" _Rennervate_ ," Harry said desperately, waving his wand with less precision than he would normally be able to muster. Ginny's eyelids fluttered, her pupils contracted, she took a tiny breath, and Harry's heart leapt before her eyes lost what focus they had gained, the breath was released with a soft sigh, and her head sagged against his lap again. Frantically he felt at her throat again, could not feel anything—no, that couldn't be it, he just wasn't feeling properly—" _Rennervate!_ " he said again, and once again the pupils of her eyes contracted slightly, a tiny breath, but smaller than the last time, more fleeting before it was gone again... "No. No! _Rennervate!_ Ginny, please!"

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, knew it was Neville's, ignored it for the time being. " _Rennervate!_ Ginny come on, come back—you've got James, you've got me, you've got Neville, please, come back..." The pupils were not contracting, there was no hint of an indrawn breath, not the slightest movement in the vein beneath the skin to prove a pulse...

"She's gone," a familiar voice said behind him. "I'm sorry, Harry, but she's gone. Those spells were meant to penetrate a shield."

"Shut up, Jameson," Harry shot over his shoulder without really looking. He smoothed her hair back out of her face, stared helplessly at the empty gaze of her eyes, the terrible truth settling over him like a coat of snow, chilling him to numbness. Neville went down to his knees next to him, reaching out to take Ginny's hand, James oddly silent sitting on his lap as he looked quizzically at his mother on the floor. He reached out one plump hand, patting her arm, and Harry felt a terrible knot twist inside his stomach, bringing a lump to his throat he knew he couldn't dislodge if he tried.

"We'll need the boy."

Harry's head snapped up, tears streaming down his cheeks. Jameson's face was arranged to look hard and authoritative, the way the Head Auror's face was supposed to be, but his eyes glinted with pain. "He was in her womb for most of the time she was possessed. We need to be absolutely sure the Dark Lord didn't leave anything behind within him."

"No," Harry said, surprised he could talk past the constrictive tightness of his throat. "No. You're not doing anything with him."

"We have to. We can't leave it to chance." He reached out very slowly toward James; with a dangerous furrow of his brow, Neville drew the child close protectively. Harry pushed himself to his feet and shoved his way between Neville and Jameson.

"You're not taking my son," he said in a cold voice that wavered with the enormity of the grief that was thrashing inside him.

"Yes, I am," Jameson said in an equally cold voice. "We do what we must." He took a step forward.

Harry forgot he had a wand. He reached out and shoved, a powerful thrust forward into Jameson's chest that caused the Auror to stumble back several steps. In a flurry of movement, the hit-wizards and Aurors still standing had their wands trained on him, and he glanced to his feet to see his own wand lying uselessly there.

"You will relinquish the boy," Jameson said steadily.

"I spent years with a bit of Voldemort in me," Harry said hotly. "I'm fine. You aren't taking my son anywhere."

Suddenly ropes were winding about him, wrapping his arms tightly to his torso and binding his legs together. He whipped his head around to see Adams, an Auror three years his senior, apologetically lowering her wand as she finished off the nonverbal spell. Harry struggled against the bonds, succeeded only in losing his balance and falling heavily into a sitting position on the ground.

"Mr. Longbottom. The boy," Jameson commanded.

"Don't do it, Neville!" Harry said in a half-command, half-plea. Neville looked uncertainly between the two, holding James so tightly that he began to squirm and whimper in protest.

"He'll be returned to you," Jameson said in that maddeningly even tone, "Once we're sure he's clean."

"Don't! _Don't_ , Neville!"

Neville slowly got to his feet, shifting his hold on James as he did so to keep his tight hold on him. He looked Jameson squarely in the face, being of a height with him, and Jameson returned the look unblinkingly.

"You remember when I was training," Neville said in a voice that almost seemed to glisten with barely-controlled grief.

"I do," Jameson responded.

"You remember what I did when I finally cracked during the anti-torture exercise. Why I was put on probation, why I was encouraged to leave the force."

"I do," Jameson repeated.

"You know what I'm capable of doing if even one hair is out of place when we get him back."

Jameson nodded once, briskly.

" _Neville, no!_ "

Neville set his jaw, but otherwise ignored Harry on the floor. He hugged James hard, planted a long kiss on his forehead, and then took a deep breath, steeling himself. Face like stone, he wordlessly shifted James into the Head Auror's arms.

" _NO! NOT MY SON!_ " Harry kicked out uselessly, aiming for Jameson's legs, but his bonds restricted more tightly.

With a jerk of his head, Jameson ordered the hit-wizards and Aurors to file out the front door. Four of them carried their two dead between them, the rest supporting the others that could barely walk; one paused and with a wave of his wand, set the battle-torn foyer to repairing itself. Chips of wood flew back to their spots in the banister, and mirrors coalesced like a reverse snowfall.

Jameson was the last to leave, ignoring Harry's wordless howls on the floor. "We'll send someone for...the body. And notify her family."

Neville gave a terse nod, glancing at Harry on the floor, still thrashing against his bonds. Jameson's eyes flicked to the floor.

"He'll be released once we're gone." He sighed heavily, a tiny crack appearing in his hardened exterior. "He won't hear it right now, but tell him how deeply sorry I am."

"Are you going to apologize to me at all?" Neville asked stiffly, his hands fists at his side. "I loved her too. He's my son too. Did you forget that? Or did you think that just because I'm not falling apart in front of you that I don't care?"

"I know you care. And I know that you already know how sorry I am. Harry will take some time, and he'll never forgive me."

"I don't think I will either," Neville said, anger leaking in to color his voice.

"I don't expect it." Jameson glanced once more at Harry before turning and striding out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Neville sagged down to his knees as the door closed, the stony facade crumbling.

"How could you?" Harry demanded in a voice somewhere between an accusation and a sob. "How _could_ you? Our _son_ , Neville!"

"You know we had to," Neville said desperately, half-crawling to where Harry lay next to Ginny's body. "You know we did."

Harry didn't answer as the bonds melted away into wisps of smoke and he pushed himself up to a kneel. For a wild moment Neville thought Harry would strike him; but Harry turned back to Ginny, reached out with a shaking hand and closed her staring eyes.

"Everyone," he said tremulously, in a choked voice so full of grief it was raw. "Everyone I love is always taken from me."

Neville reached out hesitantly and drew Harry to him. "Not everyone."

As though a switch had been flipped, both of them clung tighter to one another, Harry's wordless sobs shaking them both and echoing up through the stairwell of the empty house.


	13. Chapter 13

  


_GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY_

 _11 August 1981 - 14 July 2006_

 _Her friendship was an inspiration,_

 _Her love a blessing_

* * *

"You need to eat, Harry. Please, just this little bit."

* * *

"Ron and Hermione are here. Do you...no? All right."

* * *

"Here. Take this. It'll help you sleep."

* * *

"...Nev?"

"I'm here."

"Don't ever leave. Please. I can't..."

"Never."

* * *

"James? Where is he?"

"He's at the Ministry. I went to see him while you were asleep. He's...confused, but fine. They're taking good care of him."

"Get him back."

"I'm trying. They said it will be a few days at the most."

"Get him back."

"I will."

* * *

"I didn't ever tell her—"

"She knew. Trust me, she knew. She wouldn't have stayed otherwise."

* * *

"I've got you, you can let go. I've got you. Just...let it out. Get it out. I'm here, I've got you."

* * *

"You should sleep."

"I'll sleep in a bit."

"You don't need to sit up and watch me."

"Actually, yeah, I do. Else I can't sleep."

"That makes no sense."

"I know. But I'm going to do it anyway."

* * *

"Your boss sent an owl. Said to take as much time as you need."

"Did he now. How very kind of him."

"Talk is he's resigning."

"I don't want to think about work."

"Of course."

* * *

"Stop that. It wasn't your fault. It was Voldemort's and no one else's."

"But I—"

"Did nothing wrong. Stop blaming yourself."

* * *

"I'm...holding together. Don't worry about me."

* * *

"Is James...?"

"Not yet."

* * *

"How long have I been out?"

"About a day and a half."

"...any more of that potion?"

"Eat first."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. Eat first."

* * *

"I can do this myself."

"I'm sure you can. But there's no way in hell I'm letting you hold a razor."

* * *

"How did he even..."

"Someone got hold of the ashes from the snake. Used them to raise a shade of Voldemort from the bit of soul attached to them."

"I thought...destroying the horcruxes..."

"We were wrong about a lot of things. We all were."

* * *

"I'll spoonfeed you if you make me, but you will eat this. You haven't eaten since yesterday."

* * *

"You're grieving. It's normal."

"But...it's a candle. I can't even light a candle."

"Don't worry about it. Things will get better."

* * *

"James? Is he..."

"They still don't know."

* * *

"Do you think she..."

"Yes. She loved you too. I'm sure of it."

"How do you know?"

"She told me. She asked me not to tell you. She was going to work out on her own what to do."

"And she never got to."

"...No. She didn't."

* * *

"Do you want to go sit on the couch today? Maybe read a bit? ...Okay. Never mind."

* * *

"I'm...scared for you."

"For me? Why?"

"Because every family member I've ever had has been stolen from me."

"I'll bribe Death himself if I have to. I'm not leaving you."

* * *

"He's going to be like us...no mother, not even a memory..."

"He's got us. We'll just raise him like we always wished we were raised."

* * *

"I should have done something."

"I should have too. But it's done. We can't change the past."

"I have before. I can do it again."

"The Time-Turners are all gone, no you can't."

"Then I'll find some other way. I'll do...something."

"No. You can't. You can't change the way things ended up."

"Then I'll keep going back until I do."

"No, Harry. You have to keep going forward. We're not meant to muck about in time. That way lies madness."

"...I suppose."

"It hurts. But it'll get better. I swear."

* * *

"I promise, I'm fine. You focus on you, not me."

* * *

"James...?"

"Not yet."

* * *

"What did I ever do to deserve all this?"

"It has nothing to do with what you deserve or don't deserve. Things just happen."

"Why are they happening to me?"

"I think we all ask that sometimes."

* * *

"You've stopped eating again."

"I'm not hungry."

"That doesn't matter, you need to eat."

"Food makes me ill."

"No food will make you more ill. Now eat."

* * *

"You wouldn't happen to know why the bottle of Sparksglen is half-empty, would you?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I'm locking the liquor cabinet. Don't pull a stunt like that again."

* * *

"I know. I know it hurts. It'll keep hurting before it gets better. If I could take it all away I would, I swear."

* * *

"James?"

"Molly's bringing him over today. He's staying with them until...until you're better."

"I'm fine."

"When's the last time you ate something? I thought so. He's staying with them until you're better."

"But I'll see him today."

"If you eat something, then yes. We'll see him today."


	14. Chapter 14

The house was still and quiet; even the grandfather clock was silent, Neville having forgotten to wind it for several days. A single candle sputtered on the landing beside their bedroom door, behind which Harry was asleep. He spent most of his time asleep, either that or staring, unfocused, at the ceiling.

Down in the kitchen the lamps were lit; not all of them, but enough to chase away most of the shadows that the fire in the grate did not. Neville sat at the table, head in his hands, trying desperately to keep them from trembling as he checked his watch every half minute or so. His breathing was shaky and ragged, his eyes red and sunken.

The flames in the grate leapt higher and turned a brilliant green; Neville stood so quickly his chair fell backwards as Tobias unfolded himself gracefully from the fireplace.

"I'm sorry I'm late, one of the cats knocked my cauldron over and I had to—" he stopped short as he took in Neville's appearance. "Blimey, Neville. You look—"

"Yes, yes, I know. Please." Neville held out a shaking hand and Tobias quickly pressed a flask into it. Neville drank the contents almost greedily, the trembling of his hands ceasing visibly as he placed the empty flask on the table.

"You can't keep doing this," Tobias said quietly.

"I can and I will, as long as he needs me."

"You've been doing this nonstop for what, a week? Neville, the grief will only get worse if you keep suppressing it like this. What if I hadn't been able to come tonight?"

"You don't understand. I have to be strong for him, otherwise..." Neville shook his head. "Just keep bringing them. I don't have time to fall apart right now."

"I shouldn't even be agreeing to this. You're going to be completely incapacitated when you finally stop."

"Then why are you?" Neville asked tiredly. Tobias sighed.

"Because I know that you got through Auror training, which means you're a fair enough hand at potions that you'd try to brew it yourself, and if you get this one wrong, things go very badly."

"I guess it's a good thing you've got my back, then." Neville ran his hand through his hair.

"You should get some sleep. You look awful."

"I feel awful," Neville admitted. "Even with the potion."

"You're going to start running into diminishing returns here. It's not meant to be taken for more than a few days. And I'm cutting you off after three more. I'll come sit on you if I have to keep you brewing it yourself, there are ingredients in this that accumulate in your bones and take weeks to leach out, and you're not doing Harry any favors by slowly giving yourself Feludian poisoning."

There was a lengthy pause. Then, "How dangerous is it?" Neville stared down at the flask on the table, his back to Tobias.

"Come again?"

"Feludian poisoning. How dangerous are we talking? How much can I get away with?"

"No." Tobias's voice took on the stern cast it got when he was chastising students. "I am not going to condone that kind of self-destructive behavior. Neville, you're hurting. For fuck's sake, let yourself hurt. You don't have to do everything."

"I'm all he's got," Neville said simply.

"He doesn't live in a vacuum with only you and him—"

"No. You don't get it. I am _all_ he's got," Neville said, very slowly and clearly. "His parents, his godfather, Dumbledore, Remus, Ginny—I. am. all. he's. got. I'm the only one who can pull him out of this. If I crash and burn now..." He turned, saw Tobias's face full of concern. "You didn't know him after the war. I am dead serious when I say I will do _anything_ to keep him from getting that bad again." He handed Tobias the flask, which had begun to cloud from the potion's remnants etching the glass. "Anything."

Tobias looked very hard at Neville. "Can I give you some advice? One married man to another?" One of Neville's eyebrows arched in response. "You're doing it wrong."

"Oh, well gee, thanks, that clears everything right up," Neville remarked sardonically. Tobias held up a hand.

"Let me finish. You've always been the strong one, haven't you? The one Harry looks to? The one who takes care of everything, makes it all better?" Neville nodded once. "There's nothing wrong with that...except when you've got grief that needs to be shared." Tobias sighed. "You know that my wife miscarried last winter." Another nod. "It was the first time in our marriage, in our relationship even, that we were grieving over the same thing. There can't be a strong one comforting the grieving one in that situation. You can't be the only pillar of support."

"What else am I supposed to do?" Neville asked quietly. "He needs me."

"And you need him. Let him know that. Unless I miss my mark, you've never let yourself appear vulnerable to him, have you? You've never given him the opportunity to be strong for you."

"He can't be strong right now, he's—"

"You said he rallies himself for James, when Molly brings him to visit."

"Yes, but—"

"It's because James needs him. And he knows it."

That brought Neville up short. He slowly sat down sideways in one of the kitchen chairs. Tobias pressed on.

"It's hard, exposing yourself, even to someone you trust more than anyone else. It takes a different sort of strength to let yourself go and trust another to catch you. But I think you'll find that it's very much like an archway."

"An...archway?" Neville looked slightly bewildered.

"Every stone is constantly falling. But they're falling against each other, and so they hold one another up, and that way can bear enormous burdens."

"Look, it sounds all smart when you use pithy sayings like that, but..."

"Just try it," Tobias said seriously, finally reaching out to take the flask that Neville had tried giving him. "Let yourself hurt. Let him try to mend it. There's no false dichotomy of who has to be strong here. Lean on each other. That's what a marriage _is_."

A slight look of panic shot through Neville's eyes. "But the potion. When it runs out..."

Tobias nodded. "It'll all hit you rather hard. You saw the beginnings of it tonight. Six days' worth of grief falling down round your shoulders, all at once." A tiny smile played about his lips. "Trust a Gryffindor to do something stupid without thinking it through first."

"You don't get to play at House rivalry, you came from off." The attempt at banter was poor, but it was there. Tobias gave an acquiescing nod.

"Fair enough." He looked piercingly at Neville. "I've seen Harry in charge of something before, when he comes to give guest Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. I've glimpsed the person he is. I think you're in good hands...if you let him know what you need." Neville still looked dubious. "It's either sooner or later, Neville. And it'll be worse later."

Neville looked down at his hands. "How long did you take it? Before..."

Tobias's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Shrewd, aren't you?" The grin faded as his eyes seemed to turn inward. "Too long. I...was sure her pain was worse than mine. Just like you, I figured I had to be the something she could hold onto, that I had to do it alone." He swallowed. "It was my dad who told me what I'm telling you."

"And gave you the pretty little line about archways?"

"Came up with that myself, actually."

"It's good," Neville said grudgingly. "Catchy. Mostly true."

"Mostly? It's all true." Tobias looked slightly affronted.

"Mostly." Neville stood up. "Archways fall around a keystone. The rest of the arch can't bear weight without it, but the keystone does almost no work at all."

"Well aren't you the fount of knowledge." Tobias jammed his hands into the pockets of his robe. "And who's the keystone in this extended metaphor?"

Neville stared into the flames of the fireplace, hand twitching toward the box of Floo powder in its niche in the wall. He glanced upward, toward their bedroom. "I think James will be coming home from his visit with his grandparents tomorrow."

* * *

"He looks so much like her," Harry said in a dull voice, as he and Neville stood over the cot where James lay sleeping. It was early yet, but it had been an exhausting day for him, and while he might still be a bit young to appreciate the nuances of the sensation, Neville was certain that he understood how good it feels to fall asleep in one's own bed.

"I imagine he'll hear that a lot," he said. He tapped the headboard of the cot with his wand; the cot shuddered very slightly and then settled. They'd be able to hear anywhere in the house if he started crying. It felt like it had been so much longer than a week since he had last performed that charm. "There's soup in the kitchen."

"I'm not—"

"Hungry. I know. Come eat anyway. James needs you to keep your strength up." He took a deep breath. "And I need you too."

Harry glanced sidelong at Neville, slightly surprised by the admission. They were not words Neville said often. At any rate, he allowed himself to be pulled by the wrist downstairs into the kitchen.

Of all the foods it was difficult to pretend to eat, soup was the worst. You couldn't spread it around to hide that you hadn't touched it, and you had to actually eat it to put a dent in it. Harry suspected that this was why Neville insisted on making him soup. He reluctantly spooned a tiny amount of broth into his mouth, trying to ignore the way his stomach roiled. Like it or not, Neville was right—he did have to eat.

So focused was he on getting each tiny spoonful down without gagging that he did not pay any attention to Neville sitting across from him until it slowly dawned on him that Neville was not eating, had not even picked up his spoon. Harry lifted his eyes, a tiny echo of indignation flaring in his middle.

"Oi, if I have to choke this down you do...too..." Neville's eyes had not been that bloodshot and hollow a few minutes ago.

"I haven't been entirely open with you, Harry," Neville said heavily. "I've...been going through grief suppressing potions like water since...since the funeral. I've been trying to keep going for you, trying to be there because I know you need me...but they've been getting less effective. About this time yesterday was my last one and I know it's just about done working its way through my system, I'm going to start falling apart any second now and...I'm sorry, I know that you need me, but..."

Harry stared in numb disbelief as Neville dissembled in front of him, continuing to ramble but becoming less and less coherent. Since the funeral? But...that had been a week ago. Disregarding all the other numerous side effects, that meant...

"Good god, _Neville_ ," he said, the implications slamming into place in his brain, forcing him into a wakefulness he hadn't felt for days. Soup forgotten, he sprung from his chair, around the table and clasped Neville to him, head held tightly against his chest, and Neville's arms flew around to cling to him, his hands making fists in the back of Harry's shirt. He was taking deep, shaky breaths now, gulping gasps that Harry recognized to be the precursor to sobs, but weren't quite yet.

"Shhh," he said pointlessly, stroking Neville's hair, casting about for what to do. This was all backwards. Neville didn't fall apart, he always had that control and resolve like cast iron, always weathering whatever storm had been thrown at them without a single complaint...and yet here he was, holding onto Harry as though he were drowning, slowly collapsing like a shattered window. At a loss, Harry found himself repeating the phrases Neville had been murmuring endlessly to him over the past several days. "I'm here...it's okay. I'm here, you're not alone..."

"I just can't do it anymore, I'm sorry, I tried..."

"I know. It's okay. I've got you." Harry slowly pulled Neville up out of the chair. "The kitchen's a terrible place for this. Come on, upstairs." He half-supported, half-hauled Neville up the stairs as he dragged his feet, still mumbling semi coherent apologies and pleas for Harry to understand. Harry tried as hard as he could to silence the small voice in the back of his head yammering about how inconvenient this all was, how dare Neville choose this time to fall apart, how could Neville do this to him when he needed him.

 _Neville's always been there_ , he chided himself as he cast about the room for a blanket; though it was the middle of July, there was something immensely comforting about having a blanket drawn about you. _He's always been strong for me. It's my turn to take care of him._

Harry didn't know how long he'd sat on the couch with Neville curled up and with his head and shoulders in Harry's lap, while he gently stroked Neville's arm and murmured whatever comforting thing he could think of as his husband shook violently with sobs that, even in his intense grief, he wouldn't let out. His pain was almost tangible; Harry knew that the potions didn't dull it, merely put it off, and this was several days of pain all accumulated into one heavy ball of grief. Harry ached with it himself, his own grief resonating in a minor key with Neville's, and yet it wasn't the dark tunnel he'd spent the last several days lost in. Several times Harry curled over Neville and clung to him tightly, his own tears squeezing from eyes clenched tightly shut, as though if he could get their sore and broken hearts close enough to each other they would heal and become whole.

And still, Harry could feel Neville holding himself back. He'd hold his breath, or tense every muscle in his body. He'd stop talking and take deep breaths, trying to steady himself. Finally, after Harry felt Neville's back tense so hard it spasmed, Harry grasped Neville's shoulder and turned him so he was on his back, his bleary eyes looking up into Harry's.

"Nev." Harry didn't shorten Neville's name often. It wasn't a nickname so much as an indication that Harry was feeling particularly intensely toward him; he did not use it lightly. "You've been holding on for me for so long. You can let go. I'll keep you from falling."

For a long moment it seemed as though Neville hadn't heard him. Then Neville gave a great shudder.

"Do you know how _hard_ that is?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "Giving up like that?"

"No," Harry said honestly, tucking a stray lock of Neville's hair behind his ear. "But it's not giving up. There's nothing to fight here." He swallowed. "Mourning her isn't giving up. I promise."

Despite his expression of absolute misery, Neville still looked stricken. "That's not—no, that isn't what I meant, at all. It's—it's Ginny dying, and James being taken from us, and you falling away from me just like when we were younger and I couldn't _do_ anything, it all feels like it's happening all at once and I just can't—"

"I know," Harry said, trying to choke down the note of despair that was clamoring in his throat. "I know. But those sound like reasons for you to let it out, not keep it inside." He offered a very bleak and wavering smile. "Dammit, Neville—just cry already, will you?"

That did it. The single, abrupt laugh that bubbled up in surprise was enough like the sobs that so desperately needed to escape that the sobs came with it, and now Neville had buried his face in Harry's midsection, shoulders heaving with every one. Harry held him tightly, feeling vastly inadequate for this task. And yet, he was the only one who could do it. _In laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility._ He could still hear the words he'd promised, feel them resonate in his bones. He'd been a lousy husband this last week, abandoning Neville to launch himself into his own downward spiral that might never have ended had this not happened. He was determined to make some of that up now.

"I love you," Harry whispered, giving Neville a squeeze. He wasn't sure Neville could hear him. "Things will get better now. I'm here. We'll get through this."

* * *

James very seriously considered the pile of mashed potatoes in front of him before attempting to grasp it firmly with both pudgy hands. The results of this experiment were much as one would expect, and after several moments included one very messy baby, one very potatoey high chair, and two very amused parents.

"Every time," Neville said, at the ready with a damp cloth. "I think you do it on purpose now."

"Oh, don't clean him up yet," Harry said. "He's just going to get messy again. Wait until we're done with dinner."

It was just slightly chilly in the kitchen; the windows high up in the wall at ground level were opaque with frost on the outside and condensation from the warmer room on the inside. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, but was doing a poor job of chasing the winter from the kitchen.

"Oh, I got an owl from Tobias," Neville said after he'd wiped the worst of the potatoes from his son's face. "He'll be coming, his mother-in-law decided not to have a Christmas Eve party after all."

Harry nodded. "Hermione's offered to cook. As though that's a surprise."

Neville smirked. "Are you letting her?"

"You know her. If we don't let her be the best at something it's the end of the world. Besides, I just don't think it would be Christmas Eve dinner without Hermione anxiously asking if the ham's all right." Harry paused, a tiny expression of pain flaring in his eyes before he quashed it. "Besides, it was Ginny who didn't like anyone else using the kitchen."

Neville nodded somberly and reached out to take Harry's hand. Harry smiled sadly and squeezed it.

"We'll make happy memories here again," Neville said earnestly. "And our friends will help us. And James."

James looked up at the sound of his name, grinning widely as he tossed a bit of carrot to the floor. Neville rolled his eyes and ignored it for the time being, which Harry surmised must have caused him considerable pain.

"I know," he said. He forced a smile, and it somehow made him feel better. "Nursery's going to be full to bursting, with Little Molly and Dominique and Rose and Hugo coming. No wonder Mrs. Weasley was so willing to let us host this year. And George is bringing Angelina."

"Didn't see that one coming," Neville said thoughtfully.

"I think that's the point of eloping," Harry pointed out. "Dating a girl for a year in secret and then marrying her is exactly the sort of thing I'd expect from George." He smirked. "Maybe he'll stop pinching my bum every chance he gets now."

"I wouldn't count on it," Neville said wryly. He took a long sip of water. "We did kind of rope ourselves into a giant family, didn't we?" he observed after a moment's reflection. Neither of them felt like mentioning that though they had always been a part of the extended Weasley family, James and Ginny had solidified their positions as family instead of just dear friends.

"Well, it's what you and I always wanted, isn't it?" Harry asked as he toyed with his fork. "To be a family."

A small, crooked smile touched Neville's lips. "I suppose so." He put down his glass. "Things are turning out okay," he said suddenly, eyes locking with Harry's. "Aren't they?"

Harry looked around the kitchen, which the fire was just starting to make warm. His eyes lingered on Ginny's empty chair at the small round kitchen table, where she had sat for so many breakfasts and dinners, where she had been when he first felt his son kicking, a small spot of many in this house that she had claimed as her own and still felt empty.

But the house was clean and bright, spare bedrooms prepared and awaiting holiday guests with crisp linens that still smelled of the lavender Ginny had folded into them when she had placed them in storage the year before. A Christmas tree stood in the drawing room awaiting decoration. The copper pots and pans in the kitchen gleamed, the good china waited patiently for the feast it would serve in a few days' time. The living room—which was now more of a library and study than ever—was full to bursting with Neville's books and research journals and tomes, Harry's cheap paperbacks relegated to their own small bookcase in a corner by his chair, Ginny's romance novels and diaries given a prominent shelf of their own next to the window. And James cooed at the kitchen table, watching peas bounce as he very carefully dropped them to the floor one by one.

"Not everything is okay yet," Harry admitted. "But enough of it is."


	15. Chapter 15

_1 September 2016_

"Have you seen my grade book?" Neville asked, lifting up stacks of books one at a time before tossing them into his trunk.

"Probably. They all look the same. Is it that one?" Harry pointed.

"No, that's last year's–ha!" Neville fished a leatherbound journal from where it had slid between the couch cushions. "What time is it?" he asked as he set about organizing his trunk of books so they wouldn't slide about.

"Quarter past. We should be leaving soon."

"DAD!" James called from his bedroom upstairs.

Neville and Harry were practiced at James's favorite game; without even looking at each other, they called back "WHICH ONE?" in unison.

There was a pause. "THE SHORT ONE!"

"Oh, he'll pay for that," Harry murmured as he pushed past Neville. "And stop laughing!"

Grumbling to himself as he ascended the stairs, Harry paused at one of the picture frames. It still caused a slight twinge to see Ginny waving out from it, every time he passed. He wondered, not for the first time, what she would look like now, if she'd be as bustling as her mother was on her daughter's first day of school, if she'd have cried as the Hogwarts Express steamed around the corner out of sight with their son.

Ginny, cry? Somehow he doubted it.

With a fond smile, Harry climbed the rest of the stairs to James's room, which looked rather like someone had turned it upside down and shaken it.

"The short one? Really?" Harry asked, crossing his arms in an approximation of sternness.

"I ran out of good ones," James said, his head and shoulders under his bed as he fished out his tin of Gobstones.

"Well, you can start getting used to calling him 'Professor Longbottom' instead of your little jokes. What did you need?"

James wiggled backwards out from under the bed and looked longingly over at the corner of his room. "I...Dad, can I please bring my broomstick? Maybe they'll–"

"Maybe they'll nothing. Just because I was allowed to play doesn't mean they'll bend the rules again. You're not getting detention your first day because I let you bring a forbidden object." Harry glanced around the room and let out an explosive sigh. "Didn't I tell you to clean this up?"

"I did! I got rid of all the rubbish and the laundry's in the hamper!" James bristled indignantly that his father hadn't recognized his efforts which had taken him a whole half an hour the day before.

"It still looks like your uncle's shop exploded in here. This'll be the first thing you do when you get back for Christmas hols, understood? Are you packed? Good. I'll take this to the car. _Locomotor trunk_." The trunk jumped to a few inches above the floor and began to follow Harry obediently. "Come on down, I want to leave soon."

Downstairs, Neville was pushing down on the top of his trunk with one knee, attempting to coerce it closed. "Didn't you have that packed last night?"

"That was my research trunk. This one's my teaching trunk." Neville finally slapped the last latch down. "I swear I accumulate more every year."

"Why don't you just leave them in your office over the summer?" Harry asked reasonably. Neville shot him a scandalized look. "Obviously that's a terrible idea. Don't know what I was thinking. Look, are you finished? I have no idea how long it'll take to get to King's Cross."

"Calm down. I'm sure I can secure a teacher's permission for James to arrive late if he misses the train."

"Perhaps, but what if he misses out on meeting the love of his life on the train?" Harry asked teasingly.

"Gross," James quipped as he skipped over the bottom step on his way down.

"I think we were a special case," Neville said wryly. He gestured with his wand and the two overstuffed trunks followed behind him like excited puppies, albeit very large and heavy puppies with sharp corners.

"Dad," James whined, "You promised."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"You know this one already, James," Harry pointed out. "I just did it, it's _locomotor trunk_."

"Yeah, but if I can't call him Dad, he can't do everything nonverbally."

"Both hard habits to break," Neville said, ruffling James's hair. It did not make it appreciably messier. "Come on, Harry's going to explode if we don't go out and admire the Ministry's car."

"That's not–completely off the point–"

Neville winked over his shoulder as he led James out the front door. Sighing in exasperation, Harry followed, James's trunk hovering behind him.

It did not take nearly as long to get to King's Cross Station as Harry had fretted; in fact, it took almost as long to find a parking space, procure two trollies, and push their way through the crowd to platform 9 3/4. Harry was slightly surprised by how enthusiastically James ran at the barrier, though perhaps he shouldn't have been.

By the time Harry and Neville made it through the barrier, James had already found his cousin Dominique; Bill shot Harry and Neville a slightly hassled look as Dominique proceeded to accidentally summon large volumes of smoke as she showed off her wand.

"How long do you think it'll be until their first detention?" Harry asked as he walked within earshot of Bill and Fleur.

"I'd put money on them not having gotten off the train yet," Bill said wearily.

"Tori will make zem be'ave," Fleur pointed out. "And Teddy is not zere zis year to encourage zem."

"Small comfort," Neville said wryly. "James can make trouble sitting alone in an empty room."

"I'm right here," James protested.

"I know," Neville responded. "That's partly why I said it."

The train whistled; students began clamoring aboard, some shaking off parents while others tried to simultaneously get on the train while giving their parents a goodbye hug. Dominique was the former; James, however, fit into neither category.

"Aren't you coming with me?" he asked in a bit of a shock as Neville hugged him goodbye.

"No, just my trunks," Neville said. "I take the Floo network, so I can be there ahead of the train. I have to make sure the dormitory is ready. Usually the Head of House is there the day before the train, if they haven't stayed there all summer."

"Oh." James looked slightly crestfallen. Harry smiled reassuringly at him.

"Don't fret. Nicki's there, and so's Tori, and tons of others you've met already. You're not going to be lonely, trust me." Harry tried very hard to ignore the fact that now school was in session with James attending and Neville the new Head of Gryffindor House, home was going to be very empty–Neville would not be coming home weekends anymore, and the house would be just him until the Christmas holidays. James might not be lonely, but Harry would be.

The train whistled again, and James gave Harry an extra-hard hug before tugging his trunk along behind him onto the train. Harry watched with a sad smile of pride mingled with wistfulness, and was grateful when Neville's hand found his and squeezed tightly.

"Hard to believe," Harry said finally as the train whistled one last time and the last straggling students on the platform hurried to board.

"A little," Neville agreed. "We knew it was coming, though."

Harry nodded, his chest feeling strangely tight as the train lurched forward and began to slowly pull out of the station. There in one of the windows sat James, waving along with Dominique, until the reflection from the lights above obscured his face as the train rolled away.

The car ride home was mostly silent, Harry and Neville lost in their own reveries. Harry had been considering all summer what he was going to do with both Neville and James away; even with the huge load of new responsibilities as Head of the Auror Department, he could not spend all his time at work.

Neville seemed to be thinking along these lines too. "You can come visit, you know," he said into the silence. "Tobias's wife always comes out for the Quidditch games. Maybe you can show the Gryffindor team a thing or two about flying."

Harry laughed. "I haven't been on a broomstick for anything serious for years and you know it. They're not going to want some washed-up old has-been teaching them to fly."

"Harry," Neville pointed out, "Someone in Quality Quidditch Supplies wanted your autograph not three days ago."

"Details," Harry said in what he hoped was a dismissive tone, attempting to hide the tiny bit of smugness the memory brought to him.

The car parked, Harry and Neville descended to the kitchen, where Neville started a fire in the grate and turned to face Harry.

"I mean it," he said. "You can come visit."

"I don't want to crowd James," Harry said finally. "He's already got one dad there all the time."

"Well," Neville said, sounding disappointed, "We can always go to Hogsmeade if you change your mind." He reached out and drew Harry to him, who rested his head against Neville's chest and closed his eyes.

"I'll see you at Christmas," he said, trying to sound cheerful. He knew he wasn't fooling either of them.

After a lengthy, tender kiss of goodbye, Neville stepped into the green flames of the fireplace and was gone.

* * *

It was a Wednesday that it happened.

Harry had answered Neville's hastily scrawled note, asking to meet him for a quick lunch after he had acquired some permits to import some plants for his N.E.W.T. class from the ministry, with relish. He'd meet Harry in his office in a half hour's time.

"Sir?" came an inquiring voice at his door. Harry looked up and beckoned Perry in.

"What do you have?" Harry asked.

"Report on the cursed wands. And this." Perry handed over a gold compass with three hands that drifted lazily. "We think it needs more work, it goes haywire even if all it's detecting is simple jinx-level stuff. We don't need to know if someone close has cast a Jelly-Legs within the last year."

"Too sensitive, then?" Harry asked, peering at the compass. "I'll pass it on to the Unspeakables. I'm sure they'll be thrilled to know it works at all." He rose from his desk and checked his watch; he should have time to drop it off downstairs before Neville arrived.

As he strode down the hall to the lifts, however, the grille to the farthest lift opened and Neville stepped out, brow furrowed as he studied a scroll he held unrolled in front of him. He made as though to continue walking down the hall without looking up from the scroll. Harry laughed and snapped his fingers. Neville looked up and his face split into a grin.

"Harry! Where are you going?" Harry's reply had to wait for a moment as they embraced and shared a hasty kiss.

"I have to go downstairs to the Department of Mysteries really quick. I thought you would be longer."

"So did I. Hardly any queue, and I've got somewhat of a reputation among Herbologists, I didn't have to fill out the casual use permit...anyway. I can wait in your office if you've an errand to run first."

"Nah," Harry said, beckoning Neville to follow. "Won't take more than a moment, and then we can be off."

Neville hesitated. "Are you supposed to be taking civilians down into the Department of Mysteries?" he asked.

"I'm not taking you into the Department itself, you'll be waiting by the lift," Harry said as he stepped into the lift. Neville shrugged and followed.

"How is James doing?" Harry asked eagerly; it had been less than three weeks, and he'd received letters, but somehow he got the impression that Neville had slightly more information than James was willing to produce.

"He causes just as much trouble at school as he does at home," Neville said wryly. "I'm fairly certain he's Fred reincarnated. He doesn't act up in my class, of course, but you should hear Tobias and Mags moan. And laugh. Mostly laugh, because they can't when they're setting him detention."

"Are there any complications, having him in your class?" Harry asked. It had been a point of concern he'd had, though Neville had assured him he'd worked everything out with McGonagall.

"Of course not. I've an assistant to grade all the homework, and everyone's fairly certain I'm not showing favoritism when he's up to his elbows in dragon dung just like everyone else." Neville looked with interest at the gold instrument Harry was holding. "What are we dropping off, by the way? If I'm allowed to know?"

Harry held up the compass; the three hands were still drifting with no particular urgency. "It's an experimental Dark Detector they're working on. It's supposed to be able to detect wands that have recently performed Dark magic within your immediate vicinity, but when they had us test it in the field it went haywire..."

"Department of Mysteries," the lift announced, and the grille doors opened. Harry and Neville stepped out.

"It'll be dead useful when they finish it, we'll be able to Apparate directly onto a scene and be able to tell..." he trailed off, and then slowly drew his wand. "Do you hear that?" he asked in a low voice to Neville.

Neville had also drawn his wand, more in response to Harry's sudden vigilant behavior than anything else. He cocked his head to one side. "No," he responded in that same low voice.

"Get behind me," Harry said, and Neville stepped behind him warily. Harry slowly stepped down the corridor toward the door that led to the Department of Mysteries, listened hard for a moment, eyes closed.

Then Neville heard it too, a great ripping sound like a fruit suddenly and forcefully outgrowing its skin.

"Get down!" Harry shouted, throwing himself atop Neville as diamond sparkling light shone piercingly bright around the edges of the door, just before it blew off its hinges.

There was no heat, no sound, just the feeling of a giant concussive wave...

* * *

"...we go. That's right. Easy does it...there."

Harry blinked numbly and tried to sit up rapidly, but it seemed as though his legs and arms didn't want to obey.

"Oh no, Mr. Potter, none of that yet," a witch's voice chided. "Calm down, you're in no danger. You're in St. Mungo's, Spell Damage, the Griselda Greenwold Ward, and you're safe." Her eyes flicked over to the space next to him. "So's Professor Longbottom. You were both in an accident at the Ministry."

"What kind of accident?" Harry asked blearily, trying to look over into the next bed. Neville's voice issued from it, also sounding somewhat tremulous.

"There was a mishap with the substance used to make Time-Turners," he said.

"You were stuck in a magical stasis for nearly forty-two hours," the witch–who had to be a Healer–continued. "Wreaked some havoc on both your bodies, it did, but yours most of all. The Professor here has been awake for a few hours, but you took a bit longer to come around."

"How long?" Harry asked, once again trying to sit up. The Healer put a firm hand on his chest to hold him down.

"You both were brought here three days ago, along with all the other victims. No deaths, thank goodness–apparently the closer you were to the accident, the longer you were in stasis–no, I don't understand how it works either, rescue crews got to you within five hours of the accident but you'd clearly been in stasis for much longer..." She shook her head. "Anyway. You'll be experiencing quite a bit of disorientation, possibly some memory problems, for the next few hours, but you should sort yourself out soon. Please don't try to sit up for a while, we don't need you passing out again." She patted Harry on the hand and got up as though to leave. "Oh, and Professor Longbottom–the Headmistress says that you needn't worry about returning to work until the beginning of next week. She said to let you know that Professor Caine has offered to take your classes for you."

Neville sighed. "All the Puffapods will be dried out with that buffoon in charge," he said wistfully. "I don't suppose you lot are going to let me out any sooner than that?"

"I'm afraid not," the Healer said, smiling before closing the door behind her.

There was a heavy silence to the pause. Harry took a deep breath, his mind spinning.

"Neville?" he asked. "This...is going to sound crazy..."

"It's the one where we're married," Neville supplied. "If that helps."

"Oh good," Harry breathed in relief. "I thought it might be, but..." He clenched his eyes tightly shut for a moment before opening them and turning his head to look at the next bed, where Neville was propped up against several pillows, a bandage wound around his forehead. "These other memories...they seem so...real."

Neville nodded. "Like you lived two lives and suddenly it came down to one. I know." He offered Harry a twisted half-smile. "Imagine waking up with no one to tell you which was real. I had no idea if the bloke lying next to me was my husband or not." The smile fell from his face. "I thought I'd gone mad, to be honest."

"I'm still not certain," Harry said dubiously, raising a trembling hand to rub at his eyes.

"Neither of you are mad," a familiar voice said from Harry's other side. Harry's head snapped around so quickly his neck twinged, and he winced.

The portrait hanging on the wall looked as though it normally held a stuffy-looking witch in white medical robes from at least two centuries ago; she looked somewhat affronted that she had been shunted off to the side to make room for the distinguished wizard with long silver hair and beard and half-moon spectacles.

Harry's brow furrowed as something niggled at the back of his mind. "You're not Dumbledore," he said. The portrait bowed his head.

"You are quite right. But you are still not mad, and neither are you, Neville. The memories in both your heads are quite real, because you did live them–in a sense. I think, perhaps, once you recover from your brush with disaster, you'll be able to understand on a much higher level than your spell-addled minds are capable of doing now." The portrait's eyes twinkled. "That is, if you want to. Conveniently forgetting can be arranged."

Bits and pieces were coming back to Harry like dandelion down: his marriage to Ginny, Albus and Lily, birthdays and anniversaries that couldn't possibly have happened, and yet...

And something vague about a flask, a flask with lines...

"Don't try to think about it too hard," Neville advised him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You'll just go cross-eyed." He looked up at the portrait. "Why now, after all these years?"

"This is when it began," the portrait said simply. "Or, rather, three days ago was when it began, but you were lousy conversationalists until just now."

"You keep saying we won't remember anything," he pointed out.

"And you keep believing."

Neville's mouth snapped shut, obviously frustrated. The portrait gave a tiny smirk, then continued.

"There can only be one timeline from this point forward; I believe you both understand that. But should you desire, now that you have played out both versions of your lives...you may choose whether you would like to retain the memories of all you have been through, what could now be considered 'could have been.'"

Harry turned his head to look sharply at Neville; his neck twinged again in the same place. An entire conversation passed between them in a glance, enormous decisions passing through their eyes.

The memories were melancholy, if not downright painful. "I could have had a daughter," Harry whispered unnecessarily. Neville nodded. "And...watched her..." his mind shied away from the image of blood and terror.

"Can you make them not so real?" Neville asked abruptly, tearing his eyes away from Harry's and looking up at the portrait.

"Why?" The portrait looked genuinely confused.

"Because this is what's real," Neville said, reaching out across the space between the beds to grasp Harry's hand. "What we're living now, this is real." He glanced at Harry. "I don't want to confuse the two."

Harry swallowed, suddenly very thirsty. "Yes," he agreed. "I don't want to forget...because going back and doing what we did...that's part of us. But our lives before that?" He carefully shook his head. "They may have happened...but we were different people then. Not who we are now."

"Interesting," the portrait mused, then smiled and nodded in acquiescence. "It will be as you wish." And the image of Dumbledore stepped sideways out of the portrait, the ancient witch in Healer's robes shuffling back to the center self-importantly.

Harry turned his head back to face Neville, who smiled and squeezed his hand once before letting go.

"We did what we had to do before," he said quietly. "We ended up together because it was what we had to do."

"No," Harry disagreed. "We did what we had to do, and ended up together because what we had to do and what we wanted to do ended up being the same thing, in the end." He smiled up at the ceiling. "Tell me," he asked, echoing a memory from years ago, "Would you have it any other way?" He looked over at Neville, who smiled.

"Of course not."

The door to the ward opened and a black-robed, brown-haired bullet shot toward their beds.

"McGonagall–brought me," James gasped. "Said you were both awake, finally. Let me come." His eyes were wide. "Is it true you were actually in an explosion?"

"Of sorts," Harry said, ignoring the Healer's instructions and pushing himself into a sitting position so he could hug his son. "We're okay, though, so don't worry."

"I wasn't," James lied boldly. He released Harry and threw his arms around Neville. "There's like a billion people waiting to see you, but they let me in first."

"Good," Neville said, tousling James's hair. "I don't think that 'like a billion' people could fit in here." James rolled his eyes at his father's straight-faced mocking.

"Anyway. They're all waiting their turns. I...just wanted to make sure you're okay."

Harry shot a look at Neville. "They can wait," he said firmly. "Let's be a family for just a little while longer before the circus starts."

James raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue. He reached out to either side to grab the hands of both his dads, and they tiredly squeezed back.

They'd have to face the world again, eventually. They'd have to come to terms with the sudden load of memories in their heads, reconcile the differences, and continue on with life as they knew it.

But for now, they could be with their son, and each other, and forget the world. For now, everything was okay.


End file.
